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HISTORY
OF
Sandford and Merton
By THOMAS DAY.
ffilje onhj (fomplete Jtmerican (Ebttion.
NEW YORK:
JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY,
150 Worth Street.
Digitized by the Internet Archive
in 2013
http://archive.org/details/historyofsandfor1875dayt
LIFE OF THE AUTHOR.
Mb. Thomas Day, the author of Sandford and Merton,
was born in Wellclose Square, London, on June 22, 1748,
His father, who held a place in the Customs, died when
this his only son was but thirteen months old ; and the care
of his education devolved upon his mother, a lady in ail re-
spects eminently qualified for the task.
At the usual time he was sent to the Charter-House ; aisd,
in his sixteenth year he was entered as a gentleman-com-
moner of Corpus Christi College. He remained at Oxford
three years, but quitted it without taking a degree. The
property which his father left him, having accumulated du-
ring his long minority, was so considerable when he came
of age, as to allow him to pursue what course of life he
pleased ; and to benevolent purposes he appears very early
to have devoted a considerable part of his property. He
travelled into France and the Netherlands, and, wherever he
went, was distinguished by his singular humanity and gen-
erosity. On some occasions he experienced the consequences
of indiscriminate liberality. He had resided a winter at Ly-
ons, and on his depature, a large body of the lower classes, to
whom he had been uncommonly kind during his stay in the
city, assembled together ; and, while they very pathetically
lamented the loss of him and his bounty, recommended very
etrongly that he would leave a sum of money behind, as a
prudent supply for their future wants !
In the month of February, 1765, he was admitted of the
Middle Temple, but was not called to the bar, until the
month of May, 1779. He never entertained any positive de-
sign of entering seriously on the business of this profession ,
although be sometimes talked of it as a resource from wantj
if ever he should spend his fortune.
lii
lv LIFE OF THE AUTHOR.
In 1778, he married Miss Esther Milnes, of Wakefield, u
Yorkshire, a lady, whose cultivated understanding, and con-
genial disposition, rendered the connexion happy and endear-
ing in the highest degree. They resided first at Stapleford
Abbots in Essex, and afterwards at Anningsly near Chertsea
in Surrey ; where a farm, books, and a select society, with
occasional visits to London, formed Mr. Day's chief pleasures
and employments. Here also he composed those works which
have procured him a rank in the literary world.
But his life, thus useful and happy, was destined soon to
terminate. On Monday, September, 28, 1789, as he was
returning from Anningsly, he was killed by a fall from his
horse, in the forty-second year of his age. He was interred
at Wargraye, in Berks, in a vault which had been built for
the family. His character is represented as truly amiable.
His short life was exerted in the cause of humanity. It
was to be able to do good to others, as well as to gratify the
ardent curiosity and activity of his own mind, that he became
an ingenious mechanic, a well-informed chemist, a learned
tneoretical physician, and an expert constitutional lawyer.
But though his comprehensive genius embraced almost the
whole range of literature, the subjects to which he was the
most attached, and which he regarded as the most eminently
useful, were those that are comprehended in historical and
ethical science. Every thing was important in his eyes, in
proportion to his ability in disclosing the powers, and im-
proving the general interests, of the human species.
His publications were numerous : the first was a poem, en
titled ' The Dying Negro,' written in conjunction with »
voung friend of his. This work passed through several ed
itions and contributed its share in awakening the feelings of
the public to the sufferings of the Negroes in our islands. Hia
next publication, which appeared in 1776, was entitled 'The
Devoted Legions,' addressed to Lord George Germaine, and
the commanders of the forces employed against America
LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. V
He followed up this poem by another, in 1777 entitled
• The Desolation of America,' a political dream that has never
been realized.
He now proceeded to expand his political sentiments in
animated prose pamphlets and speeches ; and was in particular
a strenuous advocate for annual parliaments, equal represent-
ation, and other experiments. He also wrote against Mr.
Fox's India Bill, and on the absurdity of the new American
government countenancing' the Slave Trade.
But the work before us will hand down his memory to
posterity, when the other labours of his pen are forgotten.
In the fashionable modes of education, he thought that too
little attention was paid to the formation of the heart, while
the head was amply supplied with elementary instruction.
To inculcate, therefore, what he deemed a better plan, and to
inspire youth with a hardy spirit, both of passive and active
virtue, he wrote ' The History of Sandford and Merton,' the
parts of which were published at intervals from 1783 to 1789.
The experience of many years has fixed its reputation as a
useful manual of instruction, and as one of the most enter-
taining books that can be added to the juvenile library. The
style is happily adapted to the youthful reader, and lessons of
every description are conveyed in a manner at once pleasing,
rtriking, and intelligible
PREFACE.
I had written a long preface to this book, but I considered
that it was possible nobody might read the work itself. 1
inerefore, determined to send it alone into the world, with this
9hort but necessary account of its origin. All who have been
conversant in the education of very young children, have com-
plained of the total want of proper books to be put into their
hands, while they are taught the elements of reading. I have
felt this want in common with others, and have been very
much embarrassed how to supply it. The only method I could
invent, was to select such passages of different books as were
most adapted to their experience and understanding. The
least exceptionable that I could find tor this purpose, were
Plutarch's Lives, and Xenophon's History of the Institution
of Cyrus, in English translations; with some part of Robmson
Crusoe, and a few passages in the first volume of Mr. Brook's
Fool of Quality. Nor can I help expressing my regret, that
the very ingenious author of that novel has not designed to
apply his great knowledge of the human heart to this parti-
cular purpose. He would, by these means, have produced a
work more calculated to promote the good of his fellow-crea-
tures, though not his own fame, than a hundred volumes of
sentimental novels, or modern history.
Those that have been much used to children, and to such
alone I appeal, will sufficiently understand the defects of the
method I have described, and the total impossibility of avoid-
ing it. I, therefore, thought, that it would be a very valuable
present to parents, were I to make a selection of such stories
as may interest without corrupting the minds of children, and
print then, in a separate volume; a work which has, since tha
time, been very judiciously execute* by the ingenious Dr. Per
vi
PREFACE fU
cival, of Manchester.* But more attention to the subject con-
vinced me that, though such a selection would be highly use-
ful, the method was still defective, as the objects would over-
whelm the tender mind of a child by their variety and number
instead of being introduced according to that natural order of
association which we ought never to overlook in early educa-
tion. I, therefore, resolved to proceed a step farther, and not
only to collect all such stories as I thought adapted to the facul-
ties of children, but to connect them by a continued narration ;
so that every story might appear to rise naturally out of the
subject, and might, for that reason, make the greater impres-
sion. To render the relation the more interesting to those for
whom it was intended, I have introduced two children as the
actors, and have endeavoured to make them speak and behave
according to the order of nature. As to the histories them-
selves, I have used the most unbounded licence ; altering,
curtailing, adding, and generally entirely changing the lan-
guage, accordin r to the particular views which actuated me
in undertaking this work. Those who are acquainted with
literature, will easily discover where I have borrowed, where
[ have imitated, and where I have invented ; and to the rest
of the world it is of little consequence, whether they are ena-
bled to make the distinction, as to the originality of the author
is a point of the least consequence in the execution of such a
work as this. My ideas of morals and of human life will be
tjufiiciently evident to those who take the trouble of reading
ths book ; it is unnecessary either to apologize for them, or to
expatiate upon the subject ; but such as they are, they are the
result of all my experience. Whether they are adapted to the
present age, will best appear by the fate of the work itself. As
to the language, I have endeavoured to throw it into a greater
degree of elegance and ornament than is usually met with in
Dr. Percival's book is not meiely a selection, but contains many origin*
«ora! stories and essay*.
4ft PREFACE.
men compositions ; preserving at the same time a sufficient
degree of simplicity to make it intelligible to very young chil-
dren, and rather choosing to be diffuse then obscure. £ have
only to add, that I hope nobody will consider this work as a
treatise on education : I have unavoidably expressed some
ideas upon this subject, and introduced a conversation, not
one word of which any child will understand ; but all the lest
of the book is intended to form and interest the minds of
children : it is to them that I have written ; it is from their
applause alone I shall estimate my success ; and, if they are
uninterested in the work, the praises of a hundred ■•eviewers
will not console me for my failure.
It may perhaps be necessary to observe, before 1 conclude
this preface, that what is now published is only a small part
of a much larger work. These sheets have lain by me for
several years, and I have been long undetermined whether tc
suppress them entirely, or commit them to the press. Had 1
considered my own reputation as an author, I certainly should
have chosen the first part of the alternative ; since I am well
aware of the innumerable pleasantries and sneers to which
an attempt like this may be exposed ; but considerations of a
nigher nature, which I will hereafter explain, should this
work meet with any degree of popularity, have finally deter-
mined me to the latter. Such therefore as it is, I give it tc
the public. I cannot stoop either to deprecate censure, or tc
invite applause ; but I would invite those alone to criticise
who have had some experience in the education of a child.
THE HISTOR\
OF
8ANDF0RD AND MERTON.
lit the western part of England lived a gentleman
of great fortune, whose name was Merton. He had
a large estate in the Island of Jamaica, where he had
passed the greater part of his life, and was master of
many servants, who cultivated sugar and other valu-
able things for his advantage. He had only one son,
\)^ whom he was excessively fond ; and to educate this
child properly, was the reason of his determining to
elay some years in England. Tommy Merton, who
at the time he came from Jamaica, was only six years
old, was naturally a very good-natured boy, but unfor-
tunately had been spoiled by too much indulgence.
While he lived in Jamaica, he had several black
servants to wait upon him, who were forbidden upon
any account to contradict him. If he walked, there
always went two negroes with him ; one of whom
carried a large umbrella to keep the sun from him, and
the other was to carry him in his arms whenever h€
was tired. Besides this, he was always dressed in silk
9
C SANDPORD AND MEKTON.
or 'aced clothes, and had a fine gilded carriage, which
was borne upon men's shoulders, in which he madf
visits to his play-fellows. His mother was so excea.
sively fond of him, that she gave him every thing he
cried for, and would never let him learn to read
oecause he complained that it made his head ache.
The consequence of this was, that, though master
Merton had ev^ry thing he wanted, he became very
fretful and unhappy. Sometimes he ate sweetmeats
till he made himself sick, and then he suffered a great
deal of pain, because he would not take bitter physic
iO make him well. Sometimes he cried for things
that it was impossible to give him, and then, as he
had never been used to be contradicted, it was many
hours before he could be pacified. When any com-
pany came to dine at the house, he had always to be
helped first, and to have the most delicate part of the
meat, otherwise he would make such a noise as dis-
turbed the whole company. When his father and
mother were sitting at the tea-table with their friends,
•nstead of waiting till they were at leisure to attend
him, he would scramble upon the table, seize the cake
and bread and butter, and frequently overset the tea-
cups. By these pranks he not only made himseil
disagreeable to every body else, but often met with
very dangerous accidents. Frequently did he cul
himself with knives, at other t ; mes throw heavy things
upon his head, and once he narrowly escaped being
eca.ded to death by a kettle of boiling water. He
was also so delicately brought up, that he was perpet-
ually ll. ; the least wind or rain gave him cold, and
the least sun was sure to throw him into a fever. In
HARRY'S KINDNESS. 11
stead of playing about, and jumping, and running like
other children, he was taught to sit still for fear of
spoiling his clothes, and to stay in the house for fear
of injuring his complexion. By this kind of educa-
tion, when Master Merton came over to England, he
could neither write nor read, nor cipher ; he could use
none of his limbs with ease, nor bear any degree of
fatigue; but he was very proud, fretful and impatient.
Very near to Mr. Merton's seat lived a plain honest
farmer, whose name was Sandford. This man had,
Hke Mr. Merton, an only son, not much older than
Master Merton, whose name was Harry. Harry, as
he had always been accustomed to run about in the
fields, to follow the labourers while they were plough-
ing, and to drive the sheep to their pasture, was active,
strong, hardy, and fresh-coloured. He was neither
so fair, nor so delicately shaped as Master Merton ;
but he had an honest, good - natured countenance,
which made every body love him ; was never out of
humour, and took the greatest pleasure in obliging
every body. If little Harry saw a poor wretch who
wanted victuals, while he was eating his dinner, he
was sure to give him half, and sometimes the whole •,
nay, so very good-natured was he to every thing, thai
he would never go into the fields to take the eggs of
poor birds, or their voung ones nor practise any other
kind of sport which gave pain to poor animals, who
are as capable of feeling as we ourselves, though they
have no words to express their sufferings. Once
.'ndeed, Harry was caught twirling a cockchafer round,
which he had fastened by a crooked pin to a long
piece of thread : but then this was through ignorance,
19 SANDFORD AND MBRTOJT.
and want of thought ; for as soon as his father told him
that the poor helpless insect felt as much, or more
than he would do, were a knife thrust through his
hand, he burst into tears, and took the poor animal
home, where he fed him during a fortnight upon fresh
leaves ; and when he was perfectly recovered, turned
him out to enjoy liberty and the fresh air. Ever since
that time, Harry was so careful and considerate, that
he would step out of the way for fear of hurting a
worm, and employed himself in doing kind offices to
all the animals in the neighbourhood. He used to
stroke the horses as they were at work, and fill his
pockets with acorns for the pigs ; if he walked in the
fields, he was sure to gather green boughs for the
sheep, who were so fond of him, that they followed
him wherever he went. In the winter time, when
the ground was covered with frost and snow, and the
poor little birds could get at no food, he would often
go suppefless to bed, that he might feed the robin-
red-breasts : even toads and frogs, and spiders, and
such kind of disagreeable animals, which most people
destroy wherever they find them, were perfectly safe
with Harry ; he used to say, they had a right to live
is well as we, and that it was cruel and unjust to kill
creatures only because we did not like them.
These sentiments made little Harry a great favorite
with every body ; particularly with the Clergyman of
the parish, who became so fond of him, that he taught
him to read and write, and had him almost always
with him. Indeed, it was not surprising that Mr.
Barlow shewed so particular an affection for him ; foi
besides learning, with the greatest readiness, eveif
THE ESCAPE FROM THE SNAJLE. 13
thing that was taught him, little Harry was the most
honest, obliging creature in the world. He was never
discontented, nor did he ever grumble, whatever he
was desired to do. And then you might believe
Harry in every th 'ng he said; for though he could
have gained a plumb-cake by telling an untruth, and
was sure that speaking the truth would expose him to
a severe whipping, he never hesitated in declaring it.
Nor was he like many other children, who place their
whole h p 'in r ss in eating: for give him but a morsel
of dry bread for his dinner, and he would be satisfied,
though you placed sweetmeats and fruit, and every
other nicety, in his way.
With this little boy did master Merton become
acquainted in the following manner. — As he and the
maid were once walking in the fields on a fine sum-
mer's morning, diverting themselves with gathering
different kinds of wild flowers, and running after but-
terflies, a large snake, on a sudden, started up from
among some long grass, and coiled itself round little
Tommy's leg. You may imagine the fright they were
both in at this accident ; the maid ran away shrieking
for help, while the child, who was in an agony of
terror, did not dare to stir from the place where he
was standing. Harry, who happened to be walking
>ear the place, came running up, and asked what was
.he matter. Tommy, who was sobbing most piteously,
could not find words to tell him, but pointed to his
eg, ani made Harry sensible of what had happened
Harry, who, though young, was a boy of a most
courageous spirit, told him not to be frightened;
4
14 SA.NDFOKD AND MERTON.
instantly seizing the snake by the neck, with as much
ftextenty as resolution, tore him from Tommy's leg,
and threw him to a great distance off.
Just as this happened, Mrs. Merton and all the family,
alarmed by the servant's cries, came running breathless
to the place, as Tommy was recovering his spirits, and
thanking his brave little deliverer. Her first emotions
were, to catch her darling up in her arms, and, after
giving him a thousand kisses, to ask him whether he had
received any hurt? — ' No/ said Tommy, ' indeed I have
not, mamma ; but I believe that nasty ugly beast would
have bitten me, if that little boy had not come and
pulled him off.' * And who are you, my dear,' said she
5 to whom we are all so obliged V ' Harry Sandford
madam.' ' Well, my child, you are a dear, brave little
creature, and you shall go home and dine with us.
t No, thank you, madam ; my father will want me.
And who is your father, my sweet boy V ' Farmer
Sandiord, madam, that lives at the bottom of the hill.
1 Well, my dear, you shall be my child henceforth ; wil
you V * If you please, madam, if I may have my owi
father and mother too.'
Mrs. Merton instantly dispatched a servant to the
Farmer's ; and, taking little Harry by the nand, she led
him to the mansion-house, where she (bund Mr. Merton,
whom she entertained with a long account of Tommy's
danger and Harry's bravery.
Harry was now in a new scene of life. He was
carried through costly apartments, where every thing
that couid please the eye, or contribute to convenience,
was assembled. He saw large looking giasses in gilded
USE AND ORNAMENT. 18
frames carved tables and chairs, curtains made of the
finest silk, and the very plates and knives and forks
were silver. At dinner he was placed close to Mra
Merton, who took care to supply him with the choisest
Dits, and engaged him to eat, with the most endearing
kindness ; — but, to the astonishment of every body, he
neither appeared pleased nor surprised at any thing he
saw. Mrs. Merton could not conceal her disappoint*
ment ; for, as she had always been used to a great de-
gree of finery herself, she had expected it should make
the same impression upon every body else. At last,
seeing him eye a small silver cup with great attention,
out of which he had been drinking, she asked him
whether he should not like to have such a fine thing to
drink out of? and added, that, though it was Tommy's
cup, she was sure he would, with great pleasure, give it
to his little friend. * Yes, that I will,' says Tommy ;
* for you know, mamma, I have a much finer one than
that, made of gold, besides two large ones made of
silver.' ' Thank vou with all my heart,' said little
Harry ; * but I will not rob you of it, for I have a much
better one at home.' * How !' said Mrs. Merton, ' does
your father eat and drink out of silver ?' « I don't know,'
madam, what you call this ; but we drink at home out
of long things made of horn, just such as the cows weal
upon their heads.' * The child is a simpleton, I think,'
said Mrs. Merton ; l and why is that better than silver
ones 1' * Because,' said Harry, * they never make us un-
easy.' ' Make you uneasy, my child !' said Mrs. Merton,
what do you mean V ( Why, madam, when the man
ihrew that great thing down, which just looks like this I
16 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
3aw that you wjre very sorry about it, an>a looked aa
if you had been just ready to drop. Now, ours at
home, are thrown about by all the family, and nc body
minds it.' ' I protest,' said Mrs. Merton, to her husband,
' I do not know what to say to this boy, he makes such
strange observations.'
The fact was, that, during dinner, one of the ser-
vants nad thrown down a large piece of plate, which as
it was very valuable, had made Mrs. Merton not only
look very uneasy, but give the man a very severe talk
for his carelessness.
After dinner, Mrs. Merton filled a large glass of
wine, and, giving it to Harry, bade him drink it up ;
but he thanked her, and said he was not dry. * But my
dear,' said she, ' this is very sweet and pleasant, and,
as you are a good boy, you may drink it up.' ' Ay !
but, madam, Mr. Barlow says that we must only
eat when we are hungry, and drink when we are dry
and that we must only eat and drink such things as
are easily met with ; otherwise we shall grow peevish
and vexed when we can't get them. And this was
the way that the Apostles did, who were all very good
men.'
Mr. Merton laughed at this. 'And pray, said he,
' little man, do you know who the Apostles were ?'
• Oh ! yes, to be sure I do.' « And who were they V
Why, sir, there was a time when people were grown
so very wicked, that they did not care what they did
and the great folks were all proud, and minded nothing
but eating and drinking, and sleeping, and amusing
hemselves ; and took no care of the poor, and would
THE RICH AND POOR.
not give a morsel of bread to hinder a »>eggar from
starving ; and the poor were all lazy, and loved to yt
idle better than to work ; and little boys were disobe-
dient to their parents, and their parents took no care to
teach them any thing that was good ; and all the world
was very bad, very bad indeed. And then there
came a very good man indeed, whose name was Christ ;
and he went about doing good to every body, and
curing people of all sorts of diseases, and taught them
what they ought to do ; and he chose out twelve other
very good men, and called them Apostles: and these
Apostles went about the world doing as he did,
and teaching people as he taught them. And they
never mindea what they did eat or drink, but lived
upon dry bread and water; and when any body
offered them money, they would not take it, but told
them to be good, and give it to the poor and sick ; and
so they made the world a great deal better. And
therefore it is not fit to mind what we live upon, but we
should take what we can get, and be contented ; just as
the beasts and birds do, wh# lodge in the open air, anil
live upon herbs, and drink nothing but water; and yet
they are strong, and active, and healthy.'
* Upon my word,' said Mr. Merton this little man is
a great philosopher ; and we should be much obliged
to Mr.. Barlow if he would take our Tommy under
his care ; for he grows a great boy, and it is time
that he should know something. What say you Tom-
my, should you like to be a philosopher?' « Incfeed
papa, I don't know what a philosopher is ; but 1 should
'ike to be a king, because he's finer and richer thai
2*
If SANDFORD AND MERTON.
iny oody else, and has nothing to do, and every boa)
waits upon him, and is afraid of hlm. , ' Well said mj
dear,' replied Mrs. Merton ; and rose and kissed him ,
1 and a king you deserve to be with such a spirit ; and
here 's a glass of wine for you for making such a
pretty answer. And should you not like to be a king
too little Harry V l Indeed, madam, I do'nt know what
that is ; but I hope I shall soon be big enough to go to
plough, and to get my own living : and then I shall want
nobody to wait on me.'
' What a difference there is between the children of
farmers and gentlemen !' whispered Mrs. Merton to
her husband, looking rather cortemptuously upon
Harry. 1 1 am not sure,' said Mr. Merton, ' that for
this time the advantage is on the side of our son:--
But should you not like to be rich my dear 1 said he
timing to Harry. ' No, indeed, sir.' l No, simple
ton !' said Mrs. Merton ; ' and why not V « Because the
only rich man I ever saw, is Squire Chase, who lives
hard by ; and he rides among people's corn, and breaks
down their hedges, and shoots their poultry, and kills
their dogs, and lames their cattle, and abuses the
poor ; and they say he does all this because he 's ricn ,
but every body hates him, though they dare not tell him
bo to his face: — and I would not be hated for any
thing in the world.' ' But should you not like to have
a fine laced coat, and a coach to carry you about, and
servants to wait upon you V As to that, madam, one
coat is as good as another, if it will but keep me warm
and I don't want to ride, because I can walk wherevei
choose; and as M servants, I should have nothing faf
NATURE AND ART. 19
them to do, if I had a hundred of them/ Mrs, Mer-
ton continued to look at him with astonishment, but did
not ask nim any more questions.
Jn the evening, little Harry was sent home to hi?
father, who asked him what he had seen at the great
house, and how he liked being there 1 « Why,' replied
Harry, 'they were all very kind to me, for which I'm much
obliged to them : but I had rather have been at home,
for I never was so troubled in all my life to get a din-
ner. There was one man to take away my plate and
another to give me drink, and another to stand behind
my chair, just if I had been lame or blind, and could
not have waited upon myself and then there was so
much to do with putting this thing on, and taking ano-
ther off, I thought it would never have been over : and,
after dinner, I was obliged to sit two whole hours with-
out ever stirring, while the lady was talking to me, not
as Mr. Barlow does, but wanting me to love fine clothes,
and to be a king, and to be rich, that I may be hated
like squire Chase.'
But at the mansion house, much of the conversation,
in the mean time, was employed in examining the
merits of little Harry. Mrs. Merton acknowledged his
bravery and openness of temper ; she was also struck
with the general good-nature and benevolence of his
character, but she contended that he had a certain
grossness and indelicacy in his ideas, which distinguish
he children of the lower and middling classes of peo
pie from those of persons of fashion. Mr. Merton
on the contrary, maintained, that he had never before
seen a child whose sentiments and disposition would
30 SANDFORD AND MERTOlf.
Ho so much honour even to the most elevated situa
tions. Nothing he affirmed, was more easily acqui-
red thar. those external manners, and that superficial
address, upon which too many of the higher classes
pride themselves as their greatest, or even as their only
accomplishment : ' nay so easily are they picked up '
snid he 'that we frequently see them descend with the
cast clothes to maids and valets ; between whom and
their masters and mistresses there is little other differ-
ence than what results from the former wearing soiled
clothes and healthier countenances. Indeed, the real
seat of all superiority, even of manners, must be placed
in the mind : dignified sentiments, superior courage
accompanied with genuine and universal courtesy, are
always necessary to constitute the real gentleman ; and
where these are wanting, it is the greatest absurdity to
think they can be supplied by affected tones of voice,
particular grimaces, or extravagant and unnatural
modes of dress ; which far from becoming the real test
cf gentility, have in general no other origin than the
caprice of barbers, tailors, actors, opera dancers, milli-
ners, fiddlers, and French servants of both sexes. * I
cannot help, therefore, asserting,' said he, very serious*
ly, ' that this little peasant has within his mind the seeda
of true gentility and dignity of character ; and though
1 shill also wish that our son may possess all the com-
mon accomplishments of his rank, nothing would give
nic more pleasure than a certainty that he would
never in any respect fall below the son of farmer
Sand ford.'
Whether Mrs. Merton fully acceded to these observe
NATURE AND ART. 21
dons of her husband, I cannot decide ; but, without
waiting to hear her particular sentiments, he thus wen
on : — ' Should I appear more warm than usual upoE.
this subject, you must pardon me, my dear, and at
tribute it to the interest I feel in the welfare of our little
Tommy. I am too sensible that our mutual fondness
has hitherto treated him with rather too much indulgence
While we have been over-solicitous to remove from him
every painful and disagreeable impression, we have
made him too delicate and fretful : our desire of con-
stantly consulting his inclinations has made us gratify
even his caprices and humours ; and, while we have been
too studious to preserve him from restraint and oppo-
sition, we have in reality been ourselves the cause that
he has not acquired even the common attainments of
his age and situation. All this I have long observed in
silence ; but have hitherto concealed, both from my
fondness for our child, and my fear of offending you :
but at length a consideration of his real interests has
prevailed over every other motive, and has compelled
me to embrace a resolution, which I hope will not be
disagreeable to you, — that of sending him directly tc
Mr. Barlow, provided he would take the care of him : and
I think this accidental acqaintance with young Sand ford
may prove the luckiest thing in the world, as he is sc
nearly the age and size of our Tommy. I will there-
fore propose to the Farmer, that I will for some years
pay for the board and education of his little boy, that he
may be a constant companion to our son.'
As Mr. Merton said this with a certain degree of firm-
ness an<J the proposal was in itself so reasonable and
89 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
necessary, Mrs. Merton did not make any objection to it,
but consented, although very reluctantly, to part with
her son. Mr. Barlow was accordingly invited to dinner
the next Sunday, and Mr. Merton took an opportunity
of introducing the subject, and making the proposal to
him ; assuring him, at the same time, that, though there
was no return within the bounds of his fortune which
he would not willingly make, yet the education and im-
provement of his son were objects of so much import-
ance to him, that he should always consider himself as
the obliged party.
To this, Mr. Barlow, after thanking Mr. Merton for
the confidence and liberality with which he treated him,
answered in the following manner ; — ' I should be little
worthy of the distinguished regard with which you
treat me, did I not with the greatest sincerity assure
you, that I feel myself totally unqualified for such a
task. 1 am, Sir, a minister of the gospel, and I would
not exchange that character, and the severe duties it
enjoins, for any other situation in life. But you must
be sensible, that the retired manner of life which I have
led for these twenty years, in consequence of my pro-
fession, at a distance from the gaieties of the capital, and
the refinements of polite life, is little adapted to form
such a tutor as the manners and opinions of the world
require for your son. Gentlemen in your situation of
life are accustomed to divide the world into two general
classes ; those that are persons of fashion, and those that
are not, The first class contains every thing that is
valuable in life ; and therefore their manners, their pre
judices, their very vices, must be inculcated upon thfl
THE TUTOR. 28
minds of children, from the earliest period of infancy
the second comprehends the great body of mankind
who, under the general name of the vulgar, are repre-
sented as being only objects of contempt and disgust, and
scarcely worthy to be put on a footing with the very
f easts that contribute to the pleasures and conveniences
of their superiors.'
Mr. Merton could not help interrupting Mr. Barlow
Nre, to assure him, that, though there was too much
truth in the observation, yet he must not think that
either he, or Mrs. Merton, carried things to that extrava-
gant length ; and that, although they wished their son
to have the manners of a man of fashion, they thought
his morals and religion of infinitely more consequence.
1 If you think so, Sir,' said Mr. Barlow, * it is more
than a noble lord did, whose written opinions are now
considered as the oracles of polite life, and more than,
I believe, most of his admirers do at this time. But if
you allow what I have just mentioned to be the com-
mon distinctions of genteel people, you must at one
glance perceive how little I must be qualified to educate
a young gentleman intended to move in that sphere ; I,
whose temper, reason, and religion, equally combine to
make me reject the principles upon which those distinc-
.ions are founded. The Christian religion, though not
exclusively, is, emphatically speaking, the religion of the
poor. Its first ministers were taken from the lower
orders of mankind, and to the lower orders of mankind
was it first proposed ; and in this, instead of feeling my-
self mortified or asnamed, I am the more inclined to
adore the wisdom and benevo'ence of that Power bj
24 SANDF01D AMD MERTON.
whose command it was first promulgated. Those w.-w
engross the riches and advantages of this world, are toe
much employed with their pleasures and ambition, to be
much interested about any system, either of religion or
of morals; they too frequently feel a species of habitual
intoxication, which excludes every serious thought, and
makes them view with indifference every thing but the
present moment. Those, on the contrary, to whom ali
the hardships and miseries of this world are allotted as
their natural portion — those who eat the bread of bitter-
ness, and drink the waters of affliction, have more inter-
est in futurity, and are therefore more prepared to
receive the promises of the Gospel. Yes, Sir ; mark
the disingenuousness of many of our modern philoso-
phers ; they quarrel with the Christian religion, because
it has not yet penetrated the deserts of Africa, or ar-
rested the wandering hordes of Tartary ; yet they ridi-
cule it for the meanness of its origin, and because it is
the gospel of the poor : that is to say, because it is
expressly calculated to inform the judgments, and allevi-
ate the miseries of that vast promiscuous body which
constitutes the majestic species of Man. But for whom
would these philosophers have Heaven itself interested,
if not for the mighty whole which it has created 1 Poverty,
that is to say, a state of laboui and frequert self-denial,
is the natural state of man ; it is the state of all in thf;
happiest and most equal governments, the state of nearly
all in every country ; it is a state in which all the facui
ties both of body and mind are always found to develop*
themselves with the most advantage, and in which the
moral feelings have generally the greatest influence
MR. BABLOW 20
Lie accumulation of riches, on the contiary, can never
increase, but by the increasing poverty and degradation
of those whom Heaven has created equal : a thousa. j
cottages are thrown down to afford space for a single
palace. How benevolently, therefore, has Heaven acted,
in thus extending its blessings to all who do not disqualify
themselves for the reception by voluntary hardness of
heart ! how wisely, in thus opposing a continual boundary
to human pride and sensuality ; two passions the most
fatal in their effects, and the most apt to desolate the
world. And shall a minister of that Gospel, conscious
of these great truths, and professing to govern himself
by their influence, dare to preach a different doctrine,
and flatter those excesses, whVh he must know are
equally contrary both to reason and religion ? Shall he
become the abject sycophant of human greatness, and
assist it in trampling all relations of humanity beneath
its feet, instead of setting before it the severe duties of
its station, and the account which will one day be ex-
pected of all the opportunities of doing good, so idly,
so irretrievably lost and squandered 1 But I beg pardon,
Sir, for that warmth which has transported me so far,
and made me engross so much of the conversation. Buf
it will at least have this good effect, that it will demon-
strate the truth of what I have been saying . and show
that, though I might undertake the education of a
farmer, or a mechanic, I shall never succeed in that of
a modern gentlemen.'
* Sir,' replied Mr. Merton, * there is nothing which J
now hear from you, which does not increase my esteem
of your character, and my desire to engage your assi?
86 RAND FORD AND MERTOfc.
ance. Perm/t me only to ask whether, in the presen
state of things, a difference of conditions and an we
quality of fortune are not necessary, and, if necessary, I
should infer, not contrary to the spirit of Christianity V
* So it is declared, sir, that offences must come : but
that does not prevent a severe denunciation against the
offenders. But, if you wish to know, whether I am one
of those enthusiasts, who are continually preaching up
an ideal state of perfection, totally inconsistent with
human affairs, I will endeavour to give you every satis-
faction upon the subject. — If you mean by difference of
conditions and inequality of fortunes, that the presenl
state of human affairs in every society we are acquainted
with, does not admit that perfect equality which the purer
interpretations of the Gospel incuteate, I certainly shall
not disagree with you in opinion. He that formed the
human heart certainly must be acquainted with all the
passions to which it would be subject; and if, under the
immediate dispensation of Christ himself, it was found
impossible for a rich man to give his possessions to the
poor, that degree of purity will hardly be expected now,
which was not found in the origin. But here, sir, per-
mit me to remark, how widely the principles of genuine
Christianity differ from that imaginary scheme of idea,
perfection, equally inconsistent with human affairs and
human characters, which many of its pretended friends
would persuade us to believe it : and, as comparison!
sometimes throw a new and sudden light upon a subject,
give me leave to use one here, which I think bears the
closest analogy to what we are now considering. Were
some physician to arise, who, to a ne'fcot knowledge o'
op vions, &c. t7
ail preceding medical facts, had added, by a more than
human skill, a knowledge of the most secret principles
of the human frame, could he calculate, with an accu
racy that never was deceived, the effect of every cause
that could act upon our constitutions ; and, were he in-
clined, as the result of all his science and observation,
to leave a rule of life that might remain unimpeached to
the latest posterity, I ask. what kind of one would he
form V
* I suppose one,' said Mr. Merton, * that was the most
adapted to the general circumstances of the human spe-
cies, and which observed, would confer the greatest de-
gree of health and vigour.'
* Right,' said Mr. Barlow ; ' I ask again, whether, ob-
serving the common luxury and intemperance of the
rich, he would take his directions from the usages of a
polite table, and recommend that heterogeneous assem-
blage of contrary mixtures, high seasonings, poignant
sauces, fermented and distilled poisons, which is continu-
ally breeding diseases in their veins, as the best means
of preserving or regaining health V
1 Certainly not. That were to debase his heart, and
sanction abuses, instead of reforming them.'
* Would he not, then, recommend simplicity of diet,
light repasts, early slumbers, and moderate exercise in
Ihe open air, if he judged them salutary to human na.
hire, even though fashionable prejudice had stamped all
these particulars with the mark of extreme vulgarity?'
* Were he to act otherwise, he must forfeit all preten-
tions either to honesty or skill.'
1 Let us then apply all this to the mind, instead of the
38 iANDFORD AND MERTON.
body, and suppose for an instant, that some legislator,
either human or divine, who comprehended all the secret
springs that govern the mind, was preparing a universal
code for all mankind ; must he not imitate the physician,
and deliver general truths, however unpalateable, how-
over repugnant to particular prejudices, since upon the
observance of these truths alone the happiness of the
species must depend V
' I think so indeed.'
' Should such a person observe, that an immoderate
desire and accumulation of riches, a love of ostentatious
trifles, unnecessary splendour in all that relates to human
life, and an habitual indulgence of sensuality, tended not
only to produce evil in all around, but even in the indi-
vidual himself, who suffered the tyranny of these vices ;
how would you have the legislator act? Should he be
silent V
1 No, certainly : he should arraign these pernicious
habitudes by every mean within his power ; by precept,
by example.'
' Should he also observe, that riches employed in an-
other manner, in removing the real miseries of human-
ity, in cherishing, comforting, and supporting all around,
produced a contrary effect, and tended equally to make
the obliged and obliger happy ; should he conceal this
great eternal truth, or should he divulge it with all the
authority he possessed, conscious, that in whatever de«
gree it became the rule of human life, in the same de
gree would it tend to the advantage of all the world V
1 There cannot be a doubt upon the subject.'
* but, should he know, either by the spirit of prophecj
SIMPLICITY ARft 5 ^BWDOUR. 39
oi by intuitive penetration, thai the majority of mankind
would never observe these rules to any gieat degree, but
would be blindly precipitated by their pass.ons into every
pxcess against which he so benevolently cautioned them
should this be a reason for his withdrawing his precepti
rind admonitions, or for seeming to approve what was in
<ts own nature most pernicious V
1 As prudent would it be to pull off the bridle when
we mounted an impetuous horse, because we doubled of
our power to hold him in ; or to increase his madness
by the spur, when it was clearly too great before, Thus,
sir, you will perceive, that the precepts of the Christian
religion are founded upon the most perfect knowledge
of the human heart, as they furnish a continual barrier
against the most destructive passions, and the most sub-
versive of human happiness. Your own concessions
sufficiently prove, that it would have been equally dero-
gatory to truth, and the common interests of the species,
to have made the slightest concessions in favour either
of human pride or sensuality. Your < xtensive acquaint-
ance with mankind will sufficiently c )nvince you, how
prone the generality are to give an unbounded loose to
ihese two passions ; neither the continual experience of
their own weakness, nor of the fatal effects which are
produced by vicious indulgencies, has yet been capable
of teaching them either humility or moderation. What
then could the wisest legislator do, more useful, more
benevolent, more necessary, than to establish general
rules of conduct, which have a continual tendency to re-
store moral and natural order v and to diminish the wild
inequality produced by pride and avarice? Nor is Kere
3*
9L SAND FORD AND MBRTON.
my greater danger that these precepts should be too
rigidly observed, than that the bulk of mankind should
injure themselves by too abstemious a temperance. Ali
that can be expected from human weakness, even after
working from the most perfect model, is barely to arrive
at mediocrity ; and, were the model less perfect, or the
duties less severe, there is the greatest reason to think,
that even that mediocrity would never be attained. Ex-
amine the conduct of those who are placed at a distance
from all labour and fatigue, and you will find the most
trifling exertions act upon their imaginations, with the
same force as the most insuperable difficulties.
* If I have now succeeded in laying down the genuine
principles of Christian morality, I apprehend it will not
be difficult to deduce the duty of one who takes upon
him the office of its minister and interpreter. He can
no more have a right t"> alter the slightest of its princi-
ples, than the magistrate can be justified in giving falst
inter pretations to the laws. The more the corruptions
of the world increase, the greater the obligation that he
should oppose himself to their course ; and he can no
more relax in his opposition, than the pilot can abandon
• fee helm, because the winds and the waves begin tc
Hugment their fury. Should he be despised, or neglected
by all the rest of the human species, let him still persist
«n bearing testimony to the truth, both in his precepts
■>nd example ; the cause of virtue is not desperate while
it retains a single friend ; should it even sink forever,
it is enough fci him to have discharged his duty. But
although he is thus restricted as to what he shall teach
I do not assert, that it is improper for him to use his u*
WISE AND IGNORANT. SI
derstanding and experience as to the manner of his in-
struction. He is strictly bound cover to teach any string
contrary to the purest morality, but he is not bounC
always to teach that morality in its greatest extent. Id
that respect, he may use the wisdom of the serpent,
rhough guided by the innocence of the dove, if, there-
fore, he sees the reign of prejudice and corruption so
firmly established, that men would oe offended with the
genuine simplicity of the Gospel, and the purity of its
primeval doctrines, he may so far moderate their rigour,
as to prevent them from entirely disgusting weak and
luxurious minds. If we cannot effect the greatest possi-
ble perfection, it is still a material point to preserve from
the grossest vices. A physician that practises amongst
the s;reat, may certainly be excused, though he should
not be continually advising the exercise, the regimen of
the poor ; not, that the doctrine is not true, but that there
would not be the smallest probability of its ever being
adopted. But, although he never assents to that luxuri-
ous method of life, which he is continually obliged to
see he may content himself with only inculcating those
restrictions which even the luxurious may submit to, if
they possess the smallest portion of understanding. —
Should he succeed thus far, there is no reason for his
stopping in his career, or not enforcing a superior degree
of temperance ; but, should it be difficult to persuade even
so slight a restriction, he could hope for no success, were
he to preach up a Spartan or a Roman diet. Thus the
Christian minister may certainly use his own discretion in
the mode of conveying his instructions ; and it is permitted
him to employ all his knowledge of the human heart ii
■I 3ANDFOR1) AND MF.RTOM.
reclaiming men from their vices, and winning them ove
to the cause of virtue. By the severity of his own mnn
ners, he may sufficiently evince the motives of his con.
duct ; nor can he, by any means, hope for more success
than if he shews that he practices mo;e than he preaches,
and uses a greater degree of indulgence to the failings
of others, than he requires for his own.'
* Nothing,' said Mr. Merton, « can be more rational or
moderate than th<x<; sentiments ; why then do you persist
in pleading your incapacity for an employment which
you can so well discharge?'
' Because,' said Mr. Barlow, * he that undertakes the
education of a child, undertakes the most important duty
in society, and is severally answerable for every volun-
tary omission. The same mode of reasoning, which I
have just been using, is not applicable here. It is out
of the power of any individual, however strenuous may
be his endeavours, to prevent the mass of mankind from
acquiring prejudices and corruptions : and, when he finds
them in that state, he certainly may use all the wisdom
he possesses for their reformation. But this rule will
never justify him, for an instant, in giving false impres-
sions where he is at liberty to instil truth, and in losing
the only opportunity which he perhaps may ever possess,
of teaching pure morality and religion. — How will such
a man, if he has the least feeli-.g, bear to see his pupil be-
come a slave, perhaps to the grossest vices ; and to reflect,
with a great degree of probability, that this catastrophe
has been owing to his own inactivity and improper m
dulgence? May not all human characters frequently be
tiaced back to impressions made at so early a period,
EDUCATION. S3
hat none bit discerning eyes would ever suspect theii
existence ? Yet ncthing is more certain ; what we are
at twenty depends upon what we were at fifteen ; what
we are at fifteen upon what we weie at ten : where shall
we then place the beginning of the series ? — Besides, sir,
the very prejudices and manners of society, which seem
to be an excuse for the present negligence in the early
education of children, act upon my mind with a contrary
effect. Need we fear that, after every possible pre
caution has been taken, our pupil should not give a
sufficient loose to his passions, or should be in danger
of being too severely virtuous 1 How glorious would be
such a distinction, how much to be wished for, and yet
now little to be expected by any one who is moderately
acquainted with the world ! The instant he makes his
entrance there, he will find a universal relaxation and
"indifference to every thing that is serious ; every thing
will conspire to represent pleasure and sensuality as the
only business of human beings, and to throw a ridicule
jpon every pretence to principle or restraint. This will
De the doctrine that he will learn at theatres, from his
companions, from the polite circles into which he is in-
troduced. The ladies too Will have their share in the
improvement of his character: they will criticize the
colour of his clothes, his method of making a bow, and
of entering a room. They will teach him that the great
object of human life is to please the fair ; and that the
only method of doing it, is to acquire the graces. Need
we fear that, thus beset on every side, he should not
attach a sufficient importance to trifles, or grow fashion-
»Dly languid in the discharge of all his duties 1 — Alai f
34 SAIfDFORD AND MERTON.
sir, it seems to me that this will unavoidably happen is
spite of all our endeavours. Let us then not lose the
'.important moment of human life, when it is possible to
flatter ourselves with some hopes of success in giving
good impressions : they may succeed : they may either
preserve a young man from gross immorality, or have
a tendency to reform him, when the first ardour of youth
is passed. If we neglect this awful moment, which can
never return, with the view, which, I must confess, I
have of modern manners, it appears to me, like launch-
ing a vessel in the midst of a storm, without a compass
and without a pilot.'
* Sir,' said Mr. Merton, * I will make no other answer
to what you have now been saying, than to tell you, it
adds, if possible, to my esteem of your character ; and
Mat I will deliver my son into your hands, upon your
jwn conditions. And as to the terms — '
1 Pardon me/ replied Mr. Barlow, * if I interrupt you
here, and give you another specimen of the singularity
of my opinions. I am contented to take your son for
some months under my care, and to endeavour by every
means within my power to improve him. But there is
one circumstance which is indispensable, that you per-
mit me to have the pleasure of serving you as a friend.
\i you approve of my ideas and conduct, I will keep
him as long as you desire. In the mean time, as there
are, I fear, some little circumstances which have grown
up, by too much tenderness and indulgence, to be altered
in his character, I think that I shall possess more of the
7 jsaary influence and authority, if I, for the present
REWARD OF INDUSTRY. 3ft
Appear to nim and your whole family rather in the ligfct
of a friend, than that of a schoolmaster.'
However disagreeable this prcpG»al was to the gene-
rosity of Mr. Merton, he was obliged to consent to it
and little Tommy was accordingly sent the next day tc
the vicarage, which was at the distance of about tw*
miles from his father's house.
The day after Tommy came to Mr. Barlow's, as soon
as breakfast was over, he took him and Harry into the
garden : when he was there, he took a spade into his
own hand, and giving Harry a hoe, they both began to
work with great eagerness. * Every body that eats,'
says Mr. Barlow, * ought to assist in procuring food ;
and therefore little Harry and I beg'n our daily work.
This is my bed, and that other is his ; we work upon it
every day, and he that raises the most c t of it will de-
serve to fare the best. Now, Tommy, if m ou choose to
join us, I will mark you out a piece of gr< »nd, whici
you shall have to yourself, and all the produc^ shall bt
your own.' — ' No, indeed,' said Tommy, very -ulkily
j I am a gentleman, and don't choose to slave 'ke a
ploughboy.' ' Just as you please, Mr. Gentleman,' . "rid
Mr. Barlow ; ' but Harry and I, who are not above beu "*
useful, will mind our work.'
In about two hours, Mr. Barlow said it was time to
leave off; and, taking Harry by the hand, he led him
into a very pleasant summer-house, where they sal
down ; and Mr. Barlow, taking out a plate of very
fine ripe cherries, divided them between Harrv and
himself.
Tommy, who had followed, and expected his sfeare
66 SANDFORD AN1> MERTGH.
when he saw them both eating without taking any notice
of him, could no longer restrain his passion, but burs,
'nto a violent fit of sobbing and crying. — * What is the
matter?' said Mr. Barlow very coolly to him. Tommy
looked upon him very sulkily, but returned no answer.
Oh ! Sir, if you don't choose to give me an answer,
/ou may be silent ; nobody is obliged to speak here.'
Tommy became still more disconcerted at this, and.
being unable to conceal his anger, ran out of the sum-
mer-house, and wandered very disconsolately about
the garden, equally surprised and vexed to find that he
was now in a place where nobody felt any concern
whether he was pleased or the contrary.
When all the cherries were eat, little Harry said —
1 You promised to be so good as to hear me read when
we had done working in the garden ; and if it is agree-
able to you, I will now read the story of the Flies and
the Ants.' ' With all my heart,' said Mr. Barlow :
' remember to read it slowly and distinctly, without hesi-
tating or pronouncing the words wrong ; and bo sure to
read it in such a manner as to show that you understand
it.'
Harry then took up the book, and read as follows :--
Tht Flies and the Ants.
In a corner of a farmer's garden, there once hap
pencd to be a nest of Ants, who during the fine wea-
.fter of the summer, were employed all day long in
Irawing little seeds and grains of corn info their hole.
4ear them there happeneo to be a bed of flowe's, upoi
THE FLIES AND THE ANTS. 87
irtaich a g\ ?at quantity of Flies used to be always sporting,
and humming, and diverting themselves by flying from
one flower to another. A. little boy, who was the far
mer's son, used frequently to observe the different em
ployments of these animals ; and, as he was very
young ana ignorant, he one day thus expressed himself,
— Can any creature be so simple as these Ants? Ah
day long they are working and toiling, instead of en«
joying the fine weather, and diverting themselves like
these Flies, who are the happiest creatures in the
world.' Some time after he had made this observation
the weather grew extremely cold, the sun was scarcely
seen to shine, and the nights were chill and frosty.
The same little boy, walking then in the garden, did
not see a single Ant, but all the Flies lay scattered up
and down, either dead or dying. As he was very
good-natured, he could not help pitying the unfortunate
animals, and asking, at the same lime, what had hap-
pened to the Ants that he used to see in the same
place ? The father said, * The Flies are all dead,
because they were careless animals, who gave them-
selves no trouble about laying up provisions, and were
too idle to work : but the Ants, who had been busy all
the summer, in providing for their maintenance during
the winter, are all alive and well ; and you will see
them as soon as the warm weather returns. 7
« Very well, Harry,' said Mr. Barlow, < we will now
.ake a walk.' They accurdingly rambled out into the
tields, where Mr. Barlow made Harry take notice of
several Kinds of plants, and told him the names *nd
nature of them. At last Harry, who had observe*
4
#8 SAlfDFOBD AND MERTON.
some very pretty purple berries upon a plant that bom
a purple flower, and grew in the hedges, brought them
to Mr. Barlow, and asked whether they were good tG
eat 1 * It is very lucky,' said Mr. Barlow, ' young
man, that you asked the question before you put them
into your mouth; for, had you tasted them, they
would have given you violent pains in your head and
stomach, and perhaps have killed you, as they grow
upon a plant called Night-shade, which is a rank poi
son.' < Sir,' said Harry, « I take care never to eat any
thing without knowing what it is, and I hope, if you
will be so good as to continue to teach me, I shall very
soon know the narcyss and qualities of all the herbs
which grow.'
As they were returning home, Harry saw a very
large bird called a Kite, upon the ground, who seemed
to have something in his claws, which he was tearing
to pieces. Harry, who knew him to be one of those
ravenous creatures which prey upon others, ran up to
him, shouting as loud as he could ; and the bird, being
frightened, flew away, and left a chicken behind him,
very much hurt indeed, but still alive. <■ Look, sir,'
said Harry, * if that cruel creature has not almost
killed this poor chicken ! see how he bleeds, and hangs
his wings ! I will put him into my bosom to recover
him, and carry him home ; and he shall have part of
my dinner every day tiil he is well and able to shift for
himself.'
As soon as they came home, the first care of
little Harry wa3 to put his wounded chiciten into
t basket with some fresh straw, some water, and
THE KITE AND THB CHICKEN. 80
wme bread. After that, Mr. Barlow and he went te
dinner.
In the meantime, Tommy who had been skulking
fibout all day, very much mortified and uneasy, came
m, and, being very hungry, was going to sit down to
the table with the rest ; but Mr. Barlow stopped him,
and said, ' No, sir, as you are too much of a gentle-
man to work, we, who are not so, do not choose to
work for the idle.' Upon this Tommy retired into a
corner, crying as if his heart would break, but more
from grief than passion, as he began to perceive that
nobody minded his ill temper.
But little Harry, who could not bear to see his friend
so unhappy, looked up half crying into Mr. Barlow's
face, and said, < Pray, sir, may I do as I please with
my share of the dinner V « Yes to be sure child.'
: Why, then,' said ne, getting up, * I will give it all to
poor Tommy, who wants it more than I do.' Saying
this, he gave it to him as he sat in the corner; and
Tommy took it, and thanked him, without ever turning
his eyes from off the ground. ' I see,' said Mr. Barlow,
that though gentlemen are above being any use them-
selves, they are not above taking the bread that other
people have been working hard for.' At this, Tommy
cried still more bittedy than before.
The next day, Mr. Barlow and Harry went to work
as before ; but they had scarcely begun before Tommy
came to them, and desired that he might have a hoe
too, which Mr. Barlow gave him ; but as he had never
before learned to handle one, he was very awkward
in the use of 't, and hit himself' several strokes upov
10 SATfDFORD AND MERTOlf.
the legs. Mr. Barlow then laid down his own spade,
and shewed him how to hold and use it, by which
i^^vins, in a very short time, he became very expert,
and woil'ed with the greatest pleasure. When theii
work was over, they retired all three to the summer-
house ; and Tommy felt the greatest joy imaginable
when the fruit was produced, and he was invited to
t tke his share, which seemed to him the most delicious
,ie had ever tasted, because working in the air had
given him an appetite.
As soon as they had done eating, Mr. Barlow took
up a book, and asked Tommy whether he would read
them a story out of it ? but he, looking a little ashamed
said he had never learned to read. * I am very sorry
for it,' said Mr. Barlow, * because you lose a very
great pleasure : then Harry shall read to you.* Harry
accordingly took up the book, and read the following
story : —
The Gentleman and the Basket-maker.
There was in a distant part of the world, a rich
man, who lived in a fine house, and spent his whole
time in eating, drinking, sleeping, and amusing him-
self. As he had a great many servants to wait upon
him, who treated him with the greatest respect, and
did whatever they were ordered, and, as he had
lever been taught the truth, nor accustomed to hear
it, ne grew very proud, insolent, and capricious, ima«
gming that he had a right to command all the world
USE, OR SHOW? 4
and ijiai <na poor were only born to serve and obey
him.
Near the rich man's house there lived an honest and
.ndustrious poor man, who gained his livelihood by
aaking little baskets out of dried reeds, which grew upon
a yiece of marshy ground close to his cottage. But
though he was obliged to labour from morning to night,
to earn food enough to support him, and though he
seldom fared better than upon dry bread, or rice, or
pulse, and had no other bed than the remains of the
rushes of which he made baskets, yet was he always
happy, cheerful, and contented ; for his labour gave him
so good an appetite, that the coarsest fare appeared to
him delicious ; and he went to bed so tired that he would
have slept soundly even upon the ground. Besides this,
he was a good and virtuous man, humane to every body,
honest in his dealings, always accustomed to speak the
truth, and therefore beloved and respected by all his
neighbours.
The rich man, on the contrary, though he lay upon
the softest bed, yet could not sleep, because he had
passed the day in idleness ; and tauugh the nicest
dishes were presented to him, yet could he not eat with
any pleasure, because he did not wait till nature gave
him an appetite, nor use exercise, nor go into the opei
air. Besides this, as he was a great sluggard and glutton,
he was almost always ill ; and, as he did good to nobody
he had no friends ; and even his servants spoke ill of
him behind his back, and all his neighbours, wnom he
oppressed, hated him. For these reasons he was sullen,
melancholy and unhappy, and became displeased with
4*
12 8ANDFORO AND MEflTON
a11 who appeared more cheerful than h*mself. Wher ;■
was carried out in his palanquin (a kind of bed, born*:
upon the shoulders of men) he frequently passed by the
cottage of the poor Basket-maker, who was always
sitting at the door, and singing as he wove the baskeis.
The rich man could not beheld this without anger. —
' What !' said he, « shall a wretch, a peasant, a low-
born fellow, that weaves bulrushes for a scanty sub-
sistence, be always happy and pleased, while I, that am
\ gentleman, possessed of riches and power, and of
more consequence than a million of reptiles like him,
am always melancholy and discontented.' This reflec-
tion arose so often in his mind, that at last he began to
feel the greatest degree of hatred towards the poor man ;
and, as he had never been accustomed to conquer his
own passions, however improper or unjust they might
be, he at last determined to punish the Basket-maker
for being happier than himself.
With this wicked design he one night gave orders to
his servants (who did not dare to disobey him) to set
fire to the rushes which surrounded the poor man's
house. As it was summer, and the weather in that
country extremely hot, the fire soon spread over the
whole marsh, and rot only consumed all the rushes
but soon extended to the cottage itself, and the poor
Basket-maker was obliged to run out almost naked, to
save his life.
You may judge of the surprise and grief of the poor
man, when he found himself entirely deprived of his
subsistence by the wickedness of his rich neighbour,
wnom he had never offended : but, as he was unable tc
VM, OR SHOW? 4!
punish him for this injustice, he set out and walked on
foot to the chief magistrate of that country, to whom,
with many tears, he told his pitiful case. The magis-
trate, who was a good and just man, immediately
ordered the rich man to be brought before him ; and
when he found that he could not deny the wickedness
of which he was accused, he thus spoke to the poor
man : ' As this proud and wicked man has been puffed
up with the opinion of his own importance, and attempted
to commit the most scandalous injustice from his con-
tempt of the poor, I am willing to teach him of how
little value he is to any body, and how vile and con.
temptible a creature he really is : but, for this purpose,
it is necessary that you should consent to the pian 1
have formed, and go along with him to the place whither
F intend to send you both.'
The poor man replied, * I never had much ; but the
little I once had is now lost by the mischievous disposi-
lion of this proud and oppressive man. I am entirely
ruined ; 1 have no means left in the world of procuring
myself a morsel of bread the next time I am hungry;
therefore I am ready to go wherever you please to send
me : arid, though 1 would not treat this man as he has
treated me, yet should I rejoice to teach him more justice
and humanity, and to prevent his injuring the poor a
second time.'
The magistrate then ordered them both to be put on
board a ship, and carried to a distant country, which was
inhabited by a rude and savage kind of men, who lived
in huts, were strangers to riches, and got their living by
fishing
44 4APDFORD AND MERTON.
As soon as they were set on shore, the sailors le,
them, as they had been ordered, and the inhabitants o*
the country came round them in great numbers. Tne
rich man, seeing himself thus exposed, without assist-
ance or defence, in the midst of a barbarous people,
whose language he did not understand, and in whose
power he was, began to cry and wring his hands in the
most abject manner ; but the poor Basket maker, whc
had always been accustomed to hardships and dangers
from his infancy, made signs to the people that he was
their friend, and was willing to work for them, and be
their servant. Upcn this, the natives made signs to
them that they would ]o them no hurt, but would make
use of their assistance in fishing and carrying wood.
Accordingly, they led them both to a wood at some
distance, and showing them several logs, ordered them
to transport them to their cabins. They both immedi-
ately set about their tasks, and the poor man, who was
strong and active, very soon had finished his share,
while the rich man, whose limbs were tender and deli-
cate, and never accustomed to any kind of labour, had
scarcely done a quarter as much. The savages, who
were witnesses to this, began to think that the Basket-
maker would prove very useful to them, and thereto©
presented him a large portion offish, and several of th* ;
choicest roots ; while to the rich man they gave scar jly
enough to support him, because they thought him japa-
ble of being of very liltle service to them ; howr ,/er, as
he had now fasted seve ial hours, he ate what tloey gave
him witn a better appet te than he bid ever felt before a<
his own table.
USE, OR SHOM ? 43
The next day they were set to work again, and as the
Basket-maker had the same advantage over his compa-
nion, he was highly caressed and (veil treated by the
natives, while they showed every mark of contempt to-
wards the other, whose delicate and luxurious habits had
rendered him very unfit for labour.
The rich man now began to perceive with how litt l e
reason he had before valued himself, and despised his
fellow-creatures ; and an accident that fell out shortly
after, tended to complete his mortification. It happened
that one of the savages had found something like a fillet,
with which he adorned his forehead, and seemed to think
himself extremely fine : the Basket-maker, who had pei
ceived this appearance of vanity, pulled up some reeds,
and, sitting down to work, in a short time finished a
very elegant wreath, which he placed upon the head 01
the first inhabitant he chan ced to meet. This man was
so pleased with his new acquisition, that he danced and
capered with joy, and ran away to seek the rest, who
were all struck with astonishment at this new and ele-
gant piece of finery. It was not long before another
came to the Basket-maker, making signs that he wanted
to be ornamented like his companion ; and with such
pleasure w r ere these chaplets considered by the whole
nation, that the Basket-maker was released from his for-
mer drudgery, and continually employed in weaving
them. In return for the phasure which he conferred
upon them, the grateful sava, es brought him every kind
»f food their country affor 3d, built him a hut, and
showed him every demonstrl don of gratitude and kind-
ness. But the rich man, wj d possessed neither talent*
16 SANDFORD AND MERTOH.
to please noi strength to labour, was condemned to V.
the Basket- maker's, servant, and to cut him reeds to sup
ply the continual demand for chaplets.
After having passed some months in this manner thej
were again transported to their own country by the o~
jers of the magistrate, and brought before him. He then
looked sternly upon the rich man, and said ; * Having
now taught you how helpless, contemptible, and feeble a
creature you are, as well as how inferior ro the man you
insulted, I shall proceed to make reparation to him for
the injury you have inflicted upon him. Did I treat you
as you deserve, I should take from you all the riches
that you possess, as you wantonly deprived this poor
man of his whole subsistence, but hoping that you wil
become more humane for the future, I sentence you to
give half your fortune to this man, whom you endea-
voured to ruin.'
Upon this the Basket-maker said, after thanking tho
magistrate for his goodness : — ' I, having been bred jp
in poverty, and accustomed to labour, have no des <d to
acquire riches, which I should not know how to . ? ; all,
therefore, that I require of this man is, to p.. ne into
the same situation I was in before, and to .rn more
numanity.'
The rich man could not help being astonished at this
generosity ; and, having acquired wisdom by his misfor-
tunes, not only treated the Basket-maker as a friend
during the rest of his life, but employed his riches in
relieving the poor, and benefiting his fellow-creatures.
The story being ended, Tommy said it was very pre;
y; but that, had he been the good Basket-maker, N
LEARNING TO READ. 47
ivould nave taken the naughty rich man's fortune and
kept it. * So would not I,' said Harry, ■ for fear of
growing as proud, and wicked, and idle as the other *
From this time forward, Mr. Barlow and his two little
pupils used constantly to work in their garden every
ix)rning ; and, when they were fatigued, they retired to
the summer-house, where little Harry, who improved
every day in reading, used to entertain them with
some pleasant story or other, which Tommy always
listened to with the greatest pleasure. But, little Harry
going home for a week, Tommy and Mr. Barlow were
left alone.
The next day, after they had done work, and were
retired to the summer-house as usual, Tommy expected
Mr. Barlow would read to him ; but, to his great disap-
pointment, found that he was busy and could not. The
next day the same accident was renewed, and the day after
hat. At this Tommy lost all patience, and said to
umself, ' Now if I could but read like Harry Sandford,
I should not need to ask any body to do it for me, and
hen I could divert myself: and why (thinks he) may
not I do what another has done 1 To be sure, little
Harry is very clever ; but he could not have read if he
had not been taught ; and if 1 am taught, I dare say I
shall learn to read as well as he. Well, as soon as
ever he comes home, I am determined to ask him
about it.'
The next day little Harry returned, and as soon as
Tommy had an opportunity of being alone with him,
' Pray, Harry,' said Tommy, « how came you to be ablt
to read V
48 8ANDFORD AND MERTOlf.
Harry, Why Mr. Barlow taught me my \etteit.
and then spelling; and then by putting syllables
together, I learned to read. — Tommy. And could
uot you show me my letters ? — Harry. Yes, very
willingly.
Harry then took up a book, and Tommy was so
eager and attentive, that at the very first lesson he
learned the whole alphabet. He was infinitely pleased
with this first experiment, and could scarcely forbear
running to Mr. Barlow, to let him know the improve-
ment he had made ; but he thought he should surprise
aim more, if he said nothing about the matter till he
was able to read a whole story. He therefore appiied
himself with such diligence, and little Harry, who
spared no pains to assist his friend, was so good a
master, that in about two months he determined to sur-
prise Mr. Barlow with a display of his talents. Ac-
cordingly, one day, when they were all assembled in
the summer-house, and the book was given to Harry,
Tommy stood up and said, that if Mr. Barlow pleased,
he would try to read. ' Oh ! very willingly,' said Mr.
Barlow, ' but I should as soon expect you to fly as
to read.' Tommy smiled with a consciousness of his
own proficiency, and taking up the book, read with great
fluency.
The History of t)ie Two Dogs.
In a part of the world, where there are many strong
and fierce wild beasts, a poor man happened to bring up
two puppies of that kind which is most valued for sise
THE TWO DOGS. 49
and courage. As they appeared to possess more than
common strength and agility, he thought that he should
make an acceptable present to his landlord, who was a
rich man, living in a great city, by giving him one of
them, which was called Jowler ; while he brought up
the other, named Keeper, to guard his own flocks.
From this time, the manner of living was entirely
altered between the brother whelps. Jowler was sent
into a plentiful kitchen, where he quickly became the
favourite of the servants, who diverted themselves with
his little tricks and wanton gambols, and rewarded hirn
with great quantities of pot-liquor and broken victuals ;
by which means, as he was stuffing from morning to
night, he increased considerably in size, and grew sleek
and comely ; he was, indeed, rather unwieldy, and so
cowardly, that he would run away from a dog only half
as big as himself; he was much addicted to gluttony,
and was often beaten for the thefts he committed in tne
pantry ; but, as he had learned to fawn upon the foot-
men, and would stand upon his hind legs to beg, when
he was ordered, and, besides this, would fetch and carry,
he was mightily caressed by all the neighbourhood.
Keeper, in the mean time, who lived at a cottage in
the country, neither fared so well, looked so plump,
nor had learned all these little tricks to recommend
him : but, as his master was too poor to maintain any
thing but what was useful, and was obliged to be con-
tinually in the air, subject to all kttids of weather, and
labouring hard for a livelihood, Keeper grew hardy,
act ve, and diligent : he was also exposed to continual
acnger from the wolves, from whom he had received
tri SAIfDFORD AND MERTOlf.
many a severe bite, while guarding the flocks. These
continual combats gave him that degree of intrepidity,
iiat no enemy could make him turn his back. His
care and assiduity so well defended the sheep of his
master, that not one had ever been missing since they
were placed under his protection. His honesty too was
so great, that no temptation could overpower it ; and,
though he was left alone in the kitchen while the meat
was roasting, he never attempted to taste it, but
received with thankfulnesss whatever his master chose
to give him. From a continual life in the air, he was
become so hardy, that no tempest could drive him to
shelter, when he ought to be watching the flocks ; and
he would plunge into the most rapid river, in the coldest
weather of the winter, at the slightest sign from his
master.
Abou„ this time it happened, that the landlord of the
poor man went to examine his estate in the country,
and brought Jowler with him to the place of his birth.
At his arrival there, he could not help viewing with
great contempt, the rough, ragged appearance of Keep-
er, and his awkward look which discovered nothing of
the address for which he so much admired Jowler. This
opinion, however, was altered by means of an acci-
dent which happened to him. As he was one day
walking in a thick wood, with no other company than
the two dogs, a hungry wolf, with eyes that sparkled
like fire, bristling hair, and a horrid snarl that made
the gentleman tremble, rushed out of a neighbouring
thicket, and seemed ready to devour him. The unfor-
tunate man gave himseli over for lost more especially
THE BBVUtlB. 61
when he saw tnat his faithful Jowler, instead of coming
to his assistance, run sneaking away, with his tail be
tween his legs, howling with fear. But in this moment ol
despair, the undaunted Keeper, who had followed him
humbly and unobserved, at a distance, flew to his assis-
tance, and attacked the wolf with so much courage and
skill, that he was compelled to exert all his strength in
his own defence. The battle was long and bloody,
but, in the end, Keeper laid the wolf dead at his feet,
though not without receiving several severe wounds
himself, and presenting a bloody and mangled specta*
cle to the eyes of his master, who came up that instant.
The gentleman was filled with joy for his escape, and
gratitude to his brave deliverer ; and learned by his
own experience, that appearances are not always to be
trusted, and that great virtues and good dispositions
may sometimes be found in cottages while they are
totally wanting among the great.
' Very well, indeed,' said Mr. Barlow, I find that when
young gentlemen choose to take pains, they can do
things almost as well as other people. But what do you
say to the story you have been reading, Tommy?
Would you rather have owned the genteel dog that left
his master to be devoured, or the poor, rough, ragged,
meagre, neglected cur, that exposed his own life in his
defence ]' ' Indeed, sir,' said Tommy, ' I would have
rather had Keeper; but then [ would have fed him, and
washed him, and combed him, till he had looked as
well as Jowler.' < But, then, perhaps, he would have
grown idle, and fat and cowardly, like him,' said Mr
62 8ANDFORD AND MFRTON.
Barlow , 6ul here is some more of it, Jet us read to the
end of the story/ Tommy then went on thus :
The gentleman was so pleased with the noble beftavi
our of Keeper, that he desired the poor man to make
him a present of the dog; which, though with some re-
luctance, he complied with. Keeper was therefore taken
to the city, where he was caressed and fed by every
body ; and the disgraced Jowler was left at the cottage,
with strict injunctions to the man to hang him up, as a
worthless, unprofitable cur.
As soon as the gentleman had departed, the poor man
was going to execute his commission ; but, considering
the noble size and comely look of the dog, and, above
all, being moved with pity for the poor animal, who
wagged his tail, and licked his new master's feet, just
as he was putting the cord about his neck, he determined
to spare his life, and see whether a different treatment
might not produce different manners. From this day,
Jowler was in every respect treated as his brother Keepei
had been before. He was fed but scantily ; and from
this spare diet, soon grew more active and fond of exer-
cise. The first shower he was in, he ran away as he
had been accustomed to do, and sneaked to the fire-
side : but the farmer's wife soon drove him out of doors,
and compelled him to bear the rigour of the weather. In
consequence of this, he daily become more vigorous and
hardy, and, in a few months, regarded cold and rain no
more than if he had been brought up in the country.
Changed as he already was, in many respects, for the
better, he still retained an insurmountable dread of wild
beasts; til. one day, as he was wandering through •
EFFECTS OF INDULGENCE.
63
wood alone, he was attacked by a large and fierce wolf,
who, jumping out of a thicket, seized him by the neck
with fury. Jowler would fain have run, but his enemy
was too swift and violent to suffer him to escape. Ne-
cessity makes even cowards brave. Jowler, being thus
stopped in his retreat, turned upon his enemy, and, very
luckily seizing him by the throat, strangled him in an
instant. His master then coming up, and being witness.
of his exploit, praised him, and stroked him with a de-
gree of fondness he had never done before. Animated
by this victory, and by the approbation of his master,
Jowler, from that time, became as brave as he had be-
fore been pusillanimous ; and there was very soon no
dog in the country who was so great a terror to beasts
if prey.
In the mean time, Keeper, instead of hunting wild
beasts, or looking after sheep, did nothing but eat and
sleep, which he was permitted to do from a remembrance
of his past services. As all qualities both of mind and
body aie lost, if not continually exercised, he soon
ceased to be that hardy, courageous animal, he was be
fore ; and acquired all the faults which are the conse
quences of idleness and gluttony.
About this time, the gentleman went again into the
country, and, taking his dog with him, was willing thai
he should exercise his prowess once more against his
ancient enemies the wolves. Accordingly the country
people having quickly found one in a neighbouring wood
the gentleman went thither with Keeper, expecting to see
him behave as he had done the year before. But how
great was his surprise, when, at the first onset, he saw
s*
54 SANDFORD AND MERTOlf.
his beloved dog run away with every mark of timidity ,
At this moment, another dog sprang forward, and seiz-
ing the wolf with the greatest intrepidity, after a bloody
contest, left him dead upon the ground. The gentleman
r.culd not help lamenting the cowardice of his favourite,
<* i 1 admiring the noble spirit of the other dog, whom, to
his infinite surprise, he found to be the same Jowler that
he had discarded the year before. * I now see,' said he to
ihe farmer, ' that it is in vain to expect courage in those
who live a life of indolence and repose ; and that con-
stant exercise and proper discipline are frequently able
to change contemptible characters into good ones.'
1 Indeed,' said Mr. Barlow, when the story was ended,
' I am sincerely glad to find that Tommy has made this
acquisition. He will now depend upon nobody, but be
able to divert himself whenever he pleases. All that has
sver been written in our own language will be from this
time in his power ; whether he chooses to read little en-
taining stories like what we have heard to-day, or to
read the actions of great and good men in history, or to
wake himself acquainted with the nature of wild beasts
and birds, which are found in other countries, and have
been described in books : in short, I scarcely know of
any thing which from this moment will not be in his
power ; and I do not despair of one day seeing him a
very sensible man, capable of teaching and instructing
others.'
« Yes.' said Tommy, something elated by all thia
praise, * I am determined now to make myself as clevei
is any body ; and I don't doubt, though I am such t
THE DISASTER.
55
tittle fellow, that I know more already than many grown,
jp people ; and I am sure, though there are no less than
six blacks in our house, that there is not one of them
ivho can read a story like me.' Mr. Barlow looked a little
grave at this sudden display of vanity ; and said rather
coolly, ' Pray, who has attempted to teach them any
hing ? ' Nobody, I believe,' said Tommy. ' Where
is the great wonder then, if they are ignorant?' replied
Mr. Banow ; * you would probably have never known
any thing had you not been assisted ; and even now,
you know very little.'
Ii this manner did Mr. Barlow begin the education of
Tommy Merton, who had naturally very good disposi-
tions, although he had been suffered to acquire many
bad habits, that sometimes prevented them from appear-
ing. He was, in particular, very passionate, and thought
he had a right to command every body that was not
dressed as fine as himself. This opinion often led him
into inconveniences, and once was the occasion of his
being severely mortified.
This accident happened in the following manner :--
One day as Tommy was striking a ball with his bat, he
struck it over a hedge into an adjoining field, and
seeing a little ragged boy walking along on that side,
he ordered him, in a very peremptory tone, to bring it
to him. The little boy, without taking any notice of
what was said, walked on, and left the ball ; upon
which, Tommy called out more loudly than before, and
asked if he did not hear what was said 1 ' Yes,' said
the bo j { for the matter of that, I am not deaf.' < Oh 1
are you not ? replied Tommy : < then bring me my baL'
58 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
directly. I don't choose it,' said the boy. « Sirrah,
said Tommy, ' if I come to you, I shall make yoi.
choose it.' ' Perhaps not, my pretty little master,'' said
ihe boy. * You little rascal,' said Tommy, who now
began to be very angry, * if I come over the hedge I
will thrash you within an inch of your life.' To this
the other made no answer but by a loud laugh ; which
provoked Tommy so much, that he clambered over
the hedge, and jumped precipitately down, intending to
have leaped into the field ; but unfortunately his foot
slipped, and down he rolled into a wet ditch, which
was full of mud and water ; there poor Tommy tum-
bled about for some time, endeavouring to get out ; but
it was to no purpose, for his feet stuck in the mud
or slipped off from the bank : his fine waistcoat was
dirtied all over, his white stockings, covered with mire,
his breeches filled with puddle water ; and, to add to his
distress, he first lost one shoe, and then the other ; his
laced hat tumbled off from his head, and was com-
pletely spoiled. In this distress he must probably have
remained a considerable time, had not the little ragged
L>oy taken pity on him, and helped him out. Tommy
was so vexed and ashamed, that he could not say a
word, but run home in such a dirty plight, that Mr.
Barlow, who happened to meet him, was afraid he had
been considerably hurt ; but when he heard the acci
dent which had happened, he could not help smiling, anc?
he advised Tommy to be more careful for the future
now he attempted to thrash little ragged boys.
The next day, Mr. Barlow desired Harry, when the?
SLAVER*. 0}
were all together in the arbour, to read the following
itory of
Androcles and the Lion.
There was a certain slave named Androcles, wh^
was so ill treated by his master, that his life became
insupportable. Finding no remedy for what he suffered
he at length said to himself: 'it is bstLr to die, than
to continue to live in such hardships and misery as 1
am obliged to suffer. I am determined therefore to
run away from my master If I am taken again, I
know that I shall be punished with a cruel death : but
it is better to die at once, than to live in misery. If I
escape, I must betake myself to deserts and woods, in-
habited only by beasts ; but they cannot use me more
cruelly than I have been used by my fellow-creatures:
therefore, I will rather trust myself with them, than
continue to be a miserable slave.'
Having formed this resolution, he took an opportu-
nity of leaving his master's house, and hid himself
in a thick forest, which was at some miles distance
from the city. But here the unhappy mi~i found that
he had only escaped from one kind u' misery to
experience another. He wandered about all day
through a vast and trackless wood, where his flesh
was continually torn by thorns and brambles ; he grew
hungry ; but could find no food in this dreary solitude ,
a. length he was ready to die with fai : gue, and lay
down in despair in a large cavern wftrsh he found bj
accident. —
58 8ANDF0RD AND MERTON.
* Poor man !' said Harry, whose little heart coujd
scarcely contain itself at this mournful recital, * 1 wish
I could have met with him ; I would have given him all
my dinner, and he should have had my bed. But pray,
Sir, tell me, why does one man behave so cruelly to
another, and why should one person be the servant of
another, and bear so much ill treatment.'
1 As to that,' said Tommy, ' some folks are born
gentlemen, and then they must command others ; and
some are born servants, and then they must do as they
are bid. I remember, before I came hither, that there
were a great many black men and women, that my
mother said were o n ly born to wait upon me ; and 1
used to beat them and kick them, and throw things at
them, whenever I whs angry ; and they never dared
strike me again, because they were slaves ?'
' And pray, young man,' said Mr. Barlow, ' how
came these people to be slaves V
Tommy. Because my father bought them with his
money. — Mr. Barlow. So then people that are bought
with money, are slaves, are they?' — T. Yes. — Mr. B.
And those that buy them have a right to kick them,
and beat them, and do as they please with them ? — T.
Yns. — Mr. B. Then, if I was to take and sell you to
Farmer Sandford, he would have a ngnc to do what he
pleased with you. — No, Sir, said Tommy, somewhat
warmly ; but you would have no right to sell me, nor
he to buy me. — Mr. B. Then it is not a person's being
bought or sold that gives another a right to use him ill ;
but one person's having a right to sell another, and the
man who buys having a right to purchase? — T. Yet
THE. WOUNDED LION. 59
Sir — Mr. B. And what right have the people who sold
the poor negroes to your father, to sell them, or what
right has your father to buy them] Here Tommy
seemed to be a good deal puzzled, but at length he said :
They are brought from a country that is a great way
off, in ships, and so they become slaves. Then, said
Mr. Barlow, if I take you to another country, in a ship,
1 shall have a right to sell you?' — T. No, but you won't,
Sir, because I was born a gentleman. — Mr. B. What
do you mean by that, Tommy ? — Why (said Tommy,
a little confounded), to have a fine house, and fine
clothes, and a coach, and a great deal of money, as my
^pa has. Mr. B. Then if you were no longer to have
a ^ne house, nor fine clothes, nor a great deal of money,
so. «body that had all these things might make you a
sla* , and use you ill, and beat you and insult you,
and o whatever he liked with you ? — T. No, Sir, that
wonk not be right neither, that any body should use me
ill. — h *•. B. Then one person should not use another
ill 1 — 7 No, Sir. — Mr. B. To make a slave of any body,
is to u& him ill, is it not? — T. I think so. — Mr B.
Then no *>ne ought to make a slave of you? — T. No,
indeed, Si?, — Mr. B. But if no one should use another
ill, and making a slave is using him ill, neither ought
you to make a slave of any one else. — T. Indeed, Sir,
I think not; and for the future I never will use our
black William ill ; nor pinch him, nor kick him, as 1
ased to do. — Mr. B. Then you will be a very good boy
But let us now continue our story.
This unfortunate ma& had not lain long quiet jk the
00 SANDFORD AND MERTOlf.
cavern, before he heard a dreadful noise, which seemed
to be the roar of some wild beast, and terrified him very
much. He started up with a design to escape, and had
already reached the mouth of the cave, when he saw
coming towards him, a lion cf prodigious size, who pre
vented any possibility of retreat. The unfortunate man
now believed his destruction inevitable ; but, to his grea
astonishment, the beast advanced towards him with a
gentle pace, without any mark of enmity or rage and
uttered a kind of mournful voice, as if he demanded the
assistance of the man.
Androcles, who was naturally of a resolute disposi
tion, acquired courage, from this circumstance, to
examine his monstrous guest, who gave him sufficient
'eisure for that purpose. He saw, as the lion approacned
him, that he seemed to limp upon one of his legs, and
that the foot was extremely swelled, as if it had beep
wounded. Acquiring still more fortitude from the gentle
demeanour of the beast, he advanced up to him. and took
hold of the wounded paw, as a surgeon would examine
a patient. He then perceived that a thorn of uncommon
size had penetrated the ball of the foot, and was the
occasion of the swelling and lameness which he had
observed. Androcles found that the beast, far from ra-
senting this familiarity, received it with the greatest
gentleness, and seemed to invite him by his blandish-
ments to proceed. He therefore extracted the thorn,
and, pressing the swelling, discharged a considerable
quantity of matter, which had been the cause of so
much pain and uneasiness. *
As soon as the beast felt himbelf thus relieved, he
THE WOUNDED LION. •
began to testify his joy and gratitude, by every expres-
sion within his power. He jumped abovit like a wanton
spaniel, wagged his enormous tail, and licked the feet
and hands of his phvsician. Nor was he contented with
these demonstrations of kindness : from this moment
Androcles became his guest : nor did the lion ever sally
forth in quest of prey without bringing home the pro-
duce of his chase, and sharing it with his friend. In
this savage state of hospitality did the man continue to
live during the space of several months ; at length,
wandering unguardedly through the woods, he met with
a company of soldiers sent out to apprehend him, and
was by .them taken prisoner, and conducted back to his
master. The laws of that country being very severe
against slaves, he was tried, and found guilty of having
lied from his master, and as a punishment for his pre-
tended crime, he was sentenced to be torn in pieces by
a furious lion, kept many days without food, to inspire
him with additional rage.
When the destined moment arrived, the unhappy man
*vas exposed, unarmed, in the midst of a spacious area,
enclosed on every side, round which many thousand
people were assembled to view the mournful spectacle.
Presently a dreadful yell was heard, which struck the
spectators with horror ; and a monstrous lion rushea
out of a den, which was purposely set open ; and
iarted forward with erected mane, and flaming eves, and
jaws that gaped like an open sepulchre. A mournful
silence instantly prevailed! All eyes were directly
lurned upon the destined victim, whose destruction now
appeared inevitable. But the pity of the multitude waf
6
62 8ANDFORD AND MERTON.
soon converted into astonishment, when they beheld the
lion, instead of destroying his defenceless prey, crouch
submissively at his feet ; fawn upon him as a faithful
dog would do upon his master, and rejoice over him as
a mother that uexpectedly recovers her offspring. The
governor of the town, who was present, then called out
with a loud voice, and ordered Androcles to explain to
them this unintelligible mystery ; and how a savage
of the fiercest and most unpitying nature should thus
in a moment have forgotten his innate disposition, and
be converted into a harmless and inoffensive animal.
Androcles then related to the assembly every circum-
stance of his adventures in the woods, and concluded by
saying, that the very lion which now stood before them,
had been his friend and entertainer in the woods. All
the persons present were astonished and delighted with
the story, to find that even the fiercest beasts are capable
of being softened by gratitude, and moved by humanity;
and they unanimously joined to entreat for the pardon
of the unhappy man from the governor of the place. —
This was immediately granted to him ; and he was also
presented with the lion, who had in this manner twice
saved the life of Androcles.
« Upon my word,' said Tommy, ' this is a very pretty
story : but I never should have thought that a lion could
have grown so tame ; I thought that they and tigers, a.:d
wo'ves, had been so fierce and cruel, that they would
have torn every thing they met to pieces.'
* When they are hungry,' said Mr. Barlow, * they kil
trerv animal they meet : but this is to devour it ; foi
CRUELTY TO ANIMALS, 69
ihey can only live upon flesh, like dogs and cats, and
many other kinds of animals. When they are no. nun«
gry, they seldom meddle with any thing, or do unneces-
sary mischief; therefore they are much less cruel than
many persons that I have seen, and even than many
children, who plague and torment animals, without any
reason whatsoever.'
* Indeed, sir,' said Harry, ' I think so. And I remem-
ber, as I was walking along the road, some days past, I
.saw a little naughty boy that used a poor jackass very
(11 indeed. The poor animal was so lame, that he could
hardly stir ; and yet the boy beat him with a great stick
as violently as he was able, to make him go on faster.'
1 And what did you say to him V said Mr. Barlow. —
Harry. Why, sir, I told him, how naughty and cruel it
was ; and I asked him, how he would like to be beaten
in that manner by somebody that was stronger than
himself? — Mr. B. And what answer did he make you 1
H. He said, that it was his daddy's ass, and so that he
had a right to beat it ; and that if I said a word more,
he would beat me. — Mr. B. And what answer did you
make : any 1 — H. I told him, if it was his father's ass
he should not use it ill ; for that we were all God's crea-
tures, and that we should love each other, as He loved
us all ; and that as to beating me, if he struck me, I had
a right to strike him again, and would do it, though he
was almost as big again as I was. — Mr. B. And did he
strike you 1 — H. Yes, sir. He endeavoured to strike
me upon the head with his stick, but I dodged, and so
it fell upon my shoulder ; and he was going to strike me
again, but I darted at him, and knocked him down, anj
84 SANDFORD AND MERTOJV.
then he began blubbering, and begged me not to hur
him. — Mr. B. It is not uncommon for those who ait
most cruel, to be at the same time most cowardly : bui
what did you ? — H. Sir, I told him, I did not want tc
hurt him ; but that, as he had meddled with me, I would
not let him rise till he had promised me not to hurt the
poor beast any more : which he did, and then I let him
go about his business.
' You did very right,' said Mr. Barlow ; * and I sup-
pose the boy looked as foolish, when he was rising, as
Tommy did the other day, when the little ragged boy
that he was going to beat, helped him out of the ditch.'
1 Sir,' answered Tommy, a little confused, ' I should not
have attempted to beat him, only he would not bring me
my ball.' — Mr. B. And what right had you to oblige
him to bring your ball 1 — T. Sir, he was a little ragged
boy, and I am a gentleman. — Mr. B. So then, every
gentleman has a right to command little ragged boys?
T. To be sure, sir. — Mr. B. Then if your clothes
should wear out and become ragged, every gentleman
will have a right to command you 1
Tommy looked a little foolish, and said, ' But he
might have done it, as he was on that side of the hedge,'
Mr. B. And so he probably would have done, if you had
asked him civilly to do it ; but when persons speak in a
haughty tone, they will find few inclined to serve tnem.
But, as the boy was poor and ragged, I suppose you
hired him with money to fetch your ball. T. Indeed,
sir, I did not ; I neither gave him any thing, nor offered
him any thing. Mr. B. Probably you had nothing to
giv* him? T. Yes, I had, though: I had all this mo
KINDNESS TO THE POOR. W
ney (pulling out several shillings.) — Mr. B. Perhaps
.he boy was as rich as you. — T. No, he was not, sir,
I am sure ; for he had no coat, and his waistcoat and
breeches were all tattered and ragged ; besides, he had
no stockings, and his shoes were full of holes. — Mr. B,
So, now I see what constitutes a gentleman. A gentle*
man is one that, when he has abundance of every thing,
keeps it all to himself; beats poor people, if they don't
serve him for nothing ; and when they have done him
the greatest favour, in spite of his insolence, never feels
any gratitude, or does them any good in return. I find
that Androcles' lion was no gentleman.'
Tommy was so affected with this rebuke, that he could
hardly contain his tears : and, as he was really a boy
of a generous temper, he determined to give the little
ragged boy something the very first time he should see
him again. He did not long wait for an opportunity ,
for, as he was walking out that very a'lernoon, he saw
him at some distance gathering blackberries, and, going
up to him, he accosted him thus : ""* Little boy, I want to
know why you are so ragged : have you no other
clothes V ' No, indeed,' said the boy ; * I have seven
brothers and sisters, and they are all as ragged as myself:
but I should not much mind that, if I could have my
belly full of victuals.' — Tommy, And why cannot you
have your belly full of victuals V — -Little Boy. Because
daddy's ill of a fever, and can't work this harvest ; so
that mammy says we must all starve, if God Alnught?
does not take care of us.'
Tommy made no answer but ran full speed to the
touse, whence he presently returned, loaded with a leaf
6*
•6 8AWDF0RD AND MERT0N.
of bread, and a complete suit of his own clothes. * Here^
little boy,' said he, you were very good-natured to me
and so I will give you all this, because I am a gentle
man, and have many more.'
Nothing could equal the joy which appeared in the
Doy's countenance at receiving this present, excepting
what Tommy himself felt the first time at the idea of
doing a generous and grateful action. He strutted away
without waiting for the little boy's acknowledgment,
and, happening to meet Mr. Barlow as he was returning
home, told him, with an air of exultation, what he had
done. Mr. Barlow coolly answered, « You have done
very well in giving the little boy clothes, because they
are your own : but what right have you to give away
my loaf of bread without asking my consent? — Tommy.
Why, sir, I did it because the little boy said he was very
hungry, and had seven brothers and sisters, and that his
father was ill, and could not work. — Mr. B. This is a
very good reason why you should give them what
belongs to yourself, but not why you should give away
what is another's. What would you say, if Harry
were to give away all your clothes, without asking your
Inave? — T. I should not like it at all: and I will not
give away your things any more without asking your
leave ? * You will do well,' said Mr. Barlow ; « and
here is a little story you may read upon this very
subject. —
The Story of Cyrus.
Cyrus was a little boy of very good dispositions, and
a very humane temper. He had several masters, wh«
FINE CLOTHBS. 87
endeavoured to teach him every thing that was good ,
and he was educated with several little boys about his
own age. One evening, his father asked him what hs
had done or learned that day. * Sir,' said Cyrus, « ]
was punished to-day for deciding unjustly.' ' How sc,'
said his father. Cyrus. There were two boys, one of
whom was a great, and the other a little boy. Now it
nappened that the little boy had a coat that was much
too big for him, but the great boy had one that scarcely
reached below his middle, and was too tight for him in
every part ; upon which the great boy proposed to the
little boy to change coats with him, l because then,' saii
he, ' we shall be both exactly fitted ; for your coat is as
much too big for you, as mine is too little for me.' The
little boy would not consent to the proposal, on which
tne great hoy took his coat away by force, and gave his
own to the little boy in exchange. While they were
disputing upon this subject, I chanced to pass by, and
they agreed to make me judge of the affair. But I de-
cided that the little boy should keep the little coat, ana
the great boy the great one ; for which judgment my
master punished me.
' Why so V said Cyrus's father ; « was not the little
coat most proper for the little boy, and the large coat foi
the great boy V ' Yes, Sir,' answered Cyrus ; ' but my
master told me I was not made judge to examine which
coat best fitted either of the boys, but to decide whether
it was just hat the great boy should take away the coat
of the little one against his consent ; and therefore I de-
rided unjustly, and deserved to be punished.'
Just as the story was finished, they were surprised
38 SANDFORD AND MERTOH.
►o see a little ragged boy come running up to them
with a bundle of clothes under his arm. His eyes were
black, as if he had been severely beaten, his nose waa
swelled, his shirt was bloody, and his waistcoat did bu*.
just hang upon his back, so much was it torn. He
came running up to Tommy, and threw down the
Bundle before him, saying, i Here, master, take your
clothes again ; and I wish that they had been at the
bottom of the ditch I pulled you out of, instead of upon
my back : but I never vill put such frippery on again,
as long as I have breath in my body.'
1 What is the matter V said Mr. Barlow ; who per-
ceived that some unfortunate accident had happened in
consequence of Tommy's present.
4 Sir,' answered the little boy, ' my little master here
was going to beat me, because I would not fetch his ball.
Now, as to the matter of that, I would have brought his
ball with all my heart, if he had but asked me civilly.
But though i am poor, I am not bound to be his slave,
as they say black William is j and so I would not ,
upon which little master here was jumping over the hedge
to lick me : but, instead of that, he soused into the ditch,
and there he lay rolling about till I helped him out ; and
so he gave me these clothes here, all out of good will;
and I put them on, like a fool as I was; for they are
all made of silk, and look so fine, that all the little boys
followed me, and hallooed as I went ; and Jack Dowset
threw a handful of dirt at me, and dirtied me all over
" Oh !" says I, " Jaeky, are you at that work 7" — and
with that I hit him a good thump, and sent him roaring
away. But Bill> Gibson and Ned Kelly came up, and
HUNTING BEASTS. 60
said I looked like a Frenchman ; and so we began fight-
ing, and I beat them till they both gave out ; but I
don' } !i f.se to be hallooed after wherever I go, and to
look likfi a Frenchman : and so I have brought master
his clothes again.'
Mr. Barlow asked the little boy where his father lived ,
and he told him that his father lived about two miles off,
across the common, and at the end of Runny Lane ; on
which Mr. Barlow told Harry that he would send the
poor man some broth and victuals, if he would carry
it when it was ready. ' That I will,' said Harry, ' if it
were five times as far.' So Mr. Barlow went into the
nouse to give orders about it.
In the mean time Tommy, who had eyed the little
boy for some time in silence, said, ' So, my poor boy,
you have been beaten and hurt till you are all over
bloody, only because I gave you my clothes. I am
really very sorry for it.' { Thank you, little master,'
said the boy, i but it can't be helped ; you did not intend
me any hurt, 1 know, and I am not such a chicken as
to mind a beating : so I wish you a good afternoon with
all my heart.'
As soon as the little boy was gone, Tommy said, I
wish I had but some clothes that the poor boy could
wear, for he seems very good natured : I would give
them to him,' — ' That you may very easily have,' said
Harry ; • for there is a shop in the villags hard by
where they sell all manner of clothes for the poor people
and as you have money, you n*ay easily buy some.'
Harry and Tommy then agreed to go early the nex
morning to buy some clothes for the ooor children.
TO SANDFORD AND MERTON.
They accordingly set out before breakfast, and had pro
ceeded nearly half way, when they heard the noise of a
pack of hounds that seemed to be running full cry at
some distance. Tommy then asked Harry if he knew
vhat they were about. « Yes,' said Harry, ' 1 know
well enough what they are about ; it is squire Chase
and his dogs worrying a poor hare. But I wonder they
are not ashamed to meddle with such a poor inoffensive
creature, that cannot defend itself: if they have a mind
to hunt, why don't they hunt lions, and tigers, and such
fierce mischievous creatures, as I have read they do in
other countries?' 'Oh! dear,' said Tommy, { how is
that ? it must surely be very dangerous.' — « Why, you
know, said Harry, ' the men are accustomed in some
places to go almost naked ; and that makes them so
prodigiously nimble, that they can run like a deer ; and,
when a lion or tiger comes into their neighbourhood,
and devours their sheep or oxen, they go out six and
seven together, armed with javelins ; and they run over
all the woods, and examine every place till they have
found him ; and they make a noise to provoke him to
attack them : then he begins roaring and foaming, and
beating his sides with his tail, till, in a violent fury, he
springs at the man that is nearest to him.' — ' Oh ! dear,'
said Tommy, ' he must certainly be torn to pieces.' —
' No such thing,' answered Harry ; ' he jumps like a
greyhound out of the way, while the next man throws
his javelin at the lion, and perhaps wounds him in the
side: this enrages him still more; he springs again,
like lightning, upon the man that wounded him, but this
man avoids him like the other, and at last the poc
THE ANGRY SQUIRE, Tl
beast drops down dead, with the number of wounds he
has received.' — * Oh,' said Tommy, ' it must be a very
strange sight ; I should like to see it out of a window,
where I was safe.' — ' So should not I,' answered Harry ;
* for it must be a great pity to see such a noble animal
lortured and killed ; but they are obliged to do it in their
own defence. But these poor hares do no body any
harm, excepting the farmers, b> eating a little of their
corn sometimes.'
As they were talking in this manner, Harry, casting
his eyes on one side, said, < As I am alive, there is the
poor hare skulking along ! I hope they will not be able
to find her : and, if they ask me, I will never tell them
which way she is gone.'
Presently, up came the dogs, who had now lost all
scent of their game, and a gentleman mounted upon a
fine horse, who asked Harry, if he had seen the hare ?
Harry made no answer ; but, upon the gentleman's re-
peating the question in a louder tone of voice, he an-
swered that he had. 'And which way is she gone?'
said the gentleman. ' Sir, I don't choose to tell you,'
answered Harry, after some hesitation. ' Not choose !
said the gentleman, leaping off his horse, * but I'll make
you choose in an instant;' and coming up to Harry,
who never moved from the place where he had been
standing, began to lash him in a most unmerciful man-
ner with his whip, continually repeating. ' Now, von
little lascal, do you choose to tell me now?' To which
Harry made no other answer than this : * If I would
not tell you before, I won't now, though you should
kill me.'
f% SAXDFORD AND MERTON.
Bat this fortitude of Harry, and the tears of Tommy
who cried in the bitterest manner to see the distress of
his friend, made no impression on this barbarian, who
continued his brutality till another gentleman rode up
full speed, and said, 'For God's sake, squire, what are
you about ? You will kill the child, if you do not take
care.' — * And the little dog deserves it,' said the other ;
'he has seen the hare, and will not tell me which way
she is gone.' c Take care,' replied the gentleman, in a
low voice, c you don't involve yourself in a disagreeable
affair; I know the other to be the son of a gentleman
of great fortune in the neighbourhood :' and then, turning
to Harry, he said, * Why, my dear, would you not tell
the gentleman which way the hare had gone, if you saw
her V * Because,' answered Harry, as soon as he had
recovered breath enough to speak, * I don't choose to
betray the unfortunate.' ' This boy,' said the gentleman
1 is a prodigy ; and it is a happy thing for you, Squire,
that his age is not equal to his spirit. But you are al-
ways passionate — .' x\t this moment the hounds reco-
vered the scent, and bursting into a full cry, the Squire
mounted his horse, and galloped away, attended by all
his companions.
When they were gone, Tommy came up to Harry in
the most affectionate manner, and asked him how he
did? — « A little sore,' said Harry; 'but that does not
signify.' — Tommy. I wish I had had a pistol or a
sword ! — Harry. Why, what would you have done with
t? — T. I would have killed that good-for-nothing man
who treated you so cruelly. — H. That would have been
wrong, Tommy; for I am sure he did not want to kill met
run ACCIDENT. 71
Indeed, if I had been a man, he should not have used
me so ; but it is all over now, and we ought to forgive
our enemies, as Mr. Barlow tells us Christ did ; and then
perhaps they may come to love us, and be sorry for
what they have done. — T. But how could you bear to
be so severely whipped, without crying out ? — H. Why,
crying out would have done me no good at all, would
it? and this is nothing to what many little boys have
suffered without ever flinching, or bemoaning themselves.
T. Well, I should have thought a great deal. — H. Oh!
it's nothing to what the young Spartans used to suffer. —
T. Who are they ? — H. Why, you must know they were
a very brave set of people, that lived a great while ago :
and, as they were but few in number, and were sur-
rounded by a great many enemies, they used to endea-
vour to make their little boys very brave and hardy ;
and these little boys used to be always running about,
half naked, in the open air v and wrestling and jumping,
and exercising themselves ; and then had very coarse
food, and hard beds to lie upon, and were never pam-
pered and indulged : and all this made them so strong
and hardy, and brave, that the like was never seen. —
T. What, and had ihey no coaches to ride in, nor sweet-
meats, nor wine, nor any body to wait upon them ? —
H. Oh ! dear, no ; their fathers thought that would spoil
them, and so they all fared alike, and ate together in
great rooms ; and there they were taught to behave or-
derly and decently ; and, when dinner was over, they
all went to play together ; and, if they committed any
faults, they were severely whipped ; but they neve?
minded it, and scorned to cry out, or make a wry face.
7
*4 8ANDFORD AND MERTON,
As they were conversing in this manner, they ap
proached the village, where Tommy laid out all hit
money, amounting to fifteen shillings and sixpence, in
buying some clothes for the little ragged boy and his
brothers, which were made up in a bundle and given to
him ; but he desired Harry to carry them for him. * That
I will,' said Harry ; * but why don't you choose to carry
them yourself?' — Tommy. Why, it is not fit for a gen-
tleman to carry things himself. — Harry. Why, what
hurt does it do him, if he is but strong enough? — T. I
do not know ; but I believe it is that he may not look
like the common people. — H. Then he should not havo
hands, or feet, or eyes, or ears, or mouth, because the
common people have the same. T. No, no ; he must
have all these, because they are useful. — H. And is it
not useful to be able to do things for ourselves ? — T.
yes ; but gentlemen have others to do what they want
for them. — H. Then I should think it must be a bad
thing to be a gentleman. — T. Why so? — H. Because,
if all were gentlemen, nobody would do any tiling, and
then we should be all starved. — T. Starved ! — H. Yes,
Why you could not live, could you, without bread ?
T. No, I know that very well. — H. And bread is made
of a plant that grows in the earth, and is called wheat.
T. Why, then, I would gather it and eat it. — H. Then
you must do something for yourself: but that would not
do, for wheat is a small hard grain, like the oats which
you ha\c sometimes given to Mr. Barlow's horse • and
you would not like to eat them. — T. No, certainly ; but
how comes bread then ? — H. Why, they send the corn
to the mill.— T. What is a mil)? W What, did you
THE ACCIDENT. 7*
never see a mill ? — T. No, never; but I should like to
see one, that I may know how they make bread. — H
There is one at a little distance, and if you ask Mr
Barlow, he will go with you, for he knows the millet
very well. — T. That I will, for I should like to see them
make bread.'
As they were conversing in this manner, they hearo
a great outcry, and turning their heads, saw a horse
that was galloping violently along, and dragging his
rider along with him, who had fallen off, and, in falling
nitched his foot in the stirrup. Luckily for the person
it happened to be wet ground, and the side of a hill
which prevented the horse from going very fast, am!
die rider from being much hurt. But Harry, who wa*
always prepared to do an act of humanity, even with
the danger of his life, and besides that, was a boy oi
extraordinary courage and agility, ran up towards n
gap which he saw the horse approaching, and just as he
\nade a little pause before vaulting over, caught him by
Jhe bridle, and effectually stopped him from proceeding.
/n an instant another gentleman came up with two a?
three servants who alighted from their horses, disen
gaged the fallen person, and set him upon his legs, H*
stared wildly around him for some time : as he was n&
materially hurt he soon recovered his senses, and the firs
use he made of them was to swear at his horse, and tc
ask who had stopped the confounded jade. " Who V* saitf
his friend, " why the very little boy you used so scan
dalously this morning: had it not been for his dexterity
and courage, that numbscull of yours would have had
more flaws in it than it ever had before."
F§ 0AHDFOBP AH» MHTOJI.
The Squire considered Harry with a countenance n
which shame and humiliation seemed yet to struggle
with his natural insolence; but at length, putting his
hand into his pocket, he pulled out a guinea, which he
offered to Harry, telling him at the same time he was
very sorry for what had happened : but Harry, with a
look of more contempt than he had ever been seen to
assume before, rejected the present, and taking up the
bundle which he had dropped, at the time he had seized
the Squire's horse, walked away accompanied by his
companion.
As it was not far out of their way, they agreed to call
at the poor man's cottage, whom they found much better,
as Mr. Barlow had been there the preceding night, and
given him such medicines as he judged proper for his
disease. Tommy then asked for the little boy, and, on
his coming in, told him that he had now brought him
some clothes which he might wear without fear of being
called a Frenchman, as well as some more for his little
brothers. The pleasure with which they were received
was so great and the acknowledgments and blessings of
! he good woman and the poor man who had just begun
o sit up, were so many, that little Tommy could not
nelp shedding tears of compassion, in which he was
joined by Harry. As they were returning, Tommy
said that he had never spent any money, with so much
pleasure, as that with which he had purchased clothes
for this poor family ; and that for the future, he would
k ake care of all the money that was given him, for thai
ourpose, instead of laying it out in eatables and play
hingt.
THE MILL.
Some days after this, as Mr Barlow and the two boy
arere walking out together, tney happened to pass nea
a windmill ; and, on Harry's telling Tommy what
was, Tommy desired leave to go into it, and look at .
Mr. Barlow consented to this, and, being acquainted witi
the miller, they all went in, and examined every pa*
of it with great curiosity : and there little Tommy sau
with astonishment, that the sails of the mill, being con
stantly turned round by the wind, moved a great fla
stone, which, by rubbing upon another stone, bruised ai
the corn that was put between them, till it became a fin<
powder. " Oh dear !" said Tommy, " is this the wa^
they make bread 7" Mr. Barlow told him this was the
method by which the corn was prepared for making
bread ; but that many other things were necessary, be
fore it arrived at that state : — " you see that what run>
from these mi'.'.stones is only a fine powder, very differ
ent from bread, which ts a solid and tolerably hard sub
stance."
As they were going home, Harry said to Tommy
" So you see now, if nobody chose to work, or do am
thing for himself, we should have no bread to eat : bu
you could not even have the corn to make it of withr*-
a great deal of pains and labour." Tommy. — Why nc*<
does not corn grow in the ground of itself ? Harry — Cor.;
grows in the ground : but then first it is necessary t«
plough the ground, to break it to pieces. T. — What n»
ploughing ? H. — Did you never see three or four horso*
drawing something along the fields in a straight lin*
while one man drove, and another walked behind, hole-
ing the thing by two handles 1 T. — Yes, I hare ; air 5
7*
78 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
is that ploughing? H. — It is : and there is a sharp iron
underneath, which runs into the ground, and turns it
up, all the way it goes. T. — Well, and what then?
H. — When the ground is thus prepared, they sow the
seed all over it, and then they rake it over to cover the
seed ; and then the seed begins to grow, and shoots up
very high ; and at last the corn ripens, and they reap it
and carry it home. T. — I protest it must be very curi
ous, and I should like to sow some seed myself, and see
it grow; do you think I could? H. — Yes certainly,
and if you will dig the ground to-morrow, I will go
home to my father, in order to procure some seed
for you.
The next morning Tommy was up almost as soon as
it was light, and went to work in a corner of the garden,
where he dug with great perseverance till breakfast :
when he came in, he could not help telling Mr. Barlow
what he had done, and asking him, whether he was not
a very good boy, for working so hard to raise corn ?'
* That,' said Mr. Barlow, ' depends upon the use you
intend to make of it, when you have raised it : what is it
you intend doing with it V ' Why, sir,' said Tommy,
* I intend to send it to the mill tha* we saw and have it
ground into flour ; and then I will get you to show me
how to make bread of it ; and then I will eat it, that j
may tell my father that I have eaten bread out of corn
of my own sowing.' ' That will be very well done,
said Mr. Barlow, ' but where will be the great goodness
that you sow corn for your own eating? That is no
mom than all the people round continually do; and if
they did not do it, they would be obliged to fast.' * Bui
THE TWO BBOTHBR8. Tt
then,' said Tommy, ' they are not gentlemen, as J
am.'
* What then,' answered Mr. Barlow, « must not
gentlemen eat as well as others, and therefore is it not
for their interest to know how to procure food as well
as other people V ' Yes, sir,' answered Tommy, but
they can have other people to raise it for them, so that
they are not obliged to work for themselves,.' * How
does that happen,' said Mr. Barlow.— Tommy. Why
sir, they pay other people to work for them, or buy
bread when it is made, as much as they want. —
Mr. B. Then they pay for it with money 1 — T,
Yes, sir. — Mr. B. Then they must have money
before they can buy corn? — T. Certainly, sir,. — Mr,
B. But have all gentlemen money 1 — Tommy hesita-
ted some time at this question ; at last he said, * I be-
lieve not always, sir.' — Mr. B. Why then, if they
have not money, they will find it difficult to procure
corn, unless they raise it for themselves — 'Indeed,' sard
Tommy, ' I believe they will ,• for perhaps they may not
find any body good-natured enough to give it them.''
1 But,' said Mr. Barlow, ' as we are talking upon this
subject, I will tell you a story that I read a little tima
past, if you choose to hear it.' Tommy said he should
be very glad if Mr. Barlow would take the trouble of
telling it to him, ana Mr. Barlow told him the following
history of
The Two Brothers.
About the time that many people went over to Soutft
America, with the hopes of finding gold and silver
90 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
(here was a Spaniard, whose name was Pizarro, wha
had a great inclination to try his fortune like the rest
jut as he had an elder brother for whom he had a very
great affection, he went to him, told him his design,
and solicited him very much to go along with him
that he should have an equal share of all the riches they
found. The brother, whose name was Alonzo, was a
man of a contented temper, and a good understanding ;
he did not therefore much approve of the project, and
endeavoured to dissuade Pizarro from it, by setting before
him the danger to which he exposed himself, and the
uncertainty of his succeeding ; but finding, all that he
said was vain, he agreed to go with him, but told him
at the same time, that he wanted no part of the riches
which he might find, and would ask no other favour
than to have his baggage and a few servants taken on
board the vessel with him. Pizarro then sold all that he
had, bought a vessel, and embarked with several other
adventurers, who had all great expectations like himself,
of soon becoming rich. As to Alonzo, he took nothing
with him but a few ploughs, harrows, and other tools, and
some corn, together with a large quantity of potatoes, and
some seeds of different vegetables. Pizarro thought this a
very odd preparation for a voyage ; but as he did not think
proper to exp istulate with his brother, he said nothing.
After sailing some time with prosperous winds, they
put into the last port where they were to stop, before
they came to the country where they were to search
for gold. Here Pizarro bought a great number more
of pickaxes, shovels, and various other tools for dig-
ni two BRorans. it
ging, melting, ant? refining the gold he expected to find
besides hiring an additional number of labourers to as-
sist him in the work. Alonzo, on the contrary, bought
only a few sheep, and ibur stout oxen, with their har-
ness, and food enough to subsist them till they should
arrive at land.
As it happened, they met with a favourable voyage ;
and all landed in perfect health in America. Alonzo
then told his brother, that as he had only come to ac-
company and serve him, he would stay near the shore
with his servants and cattle, while he went to search
for gold ; and, when he had acquired as much as he de-
sired, should be s'ways ready to embark for Spain
with him.
Pizarro accordingly set out, not without feeling so
great a contempt for his brother, that he could not help
expressing it to his companions. ' I always thought,'
said he, 'that my brother had been a man of sense ;
he bore that character in Spain, but I find people were
strangely mistaken in him. Here he is going to divert
nimself with his sheep and his oxen, as if he was living
quietly upon his farm at home, and had nothing else to
do than to raise cucumbers and melons. But we know
better what to do with our time : so come along, my
ads, and if we have but good luck, we shall soon
be enriched for the rest of our lives.' All that were
present applauded Pizarro's speech, and declared them-
selves ready to follow wherever he went ; only one old
Spaniard shook his head as he went, and told him he
doubted whether he would find his brother so great a
fool as he thought.
iS SANDFORD AND MERTON.
They then travelled on several days' march into the
country, sometimes obliged to cross rivers, at others to
pass mountains and forests, where they could find no
paths; sometimes scorched by the violent heat of the
sun and then wetted to the skin by violent showers of
rain. These difficulties, however, did not discourage
them so much as to hinder them from trying in several
places for gold, which they were at length lucky enough
to find in a considerable quantity. This success ani-
mated them very much, and they continued working
upon that spot till all their provisions were consumed ;
they gathered daily large quantities of ore, but then
they suffered very much from hunger. Still, however,
they persevered in their labours, and sustained them-
selves with such roots and berries as they could
find. At last even this resource failed them ; and,
after several of their company had died from want
and hardship, the rest were just able to crawl back to
the place where they had left Alonzo, carrying with
them the gold, to acquire which they had suffered so
many miseries.
But while they had been employed in this manner,
Alonzo, who foresaw what would happen, had been in-
dustriously toiling to a very different purpose. His
skill in husbandry had easily enabled him to find a spot
of considerable extent and very fertile soil, which he
ploughed up with the oxen he had brought with him, and
the assistance of his servants. He then sowed the
different seeds he had brought, and planted the potatoes /
which prospered beyond what he could have expected.
and yielded him a most abundant harvest. His sheep
THE TWO BROTHERS. €4
he had turned out in a very fine meadow near the sea.
and every one of them had brought him a couple of
{ambs. Besides that, he and his servants, at leisure
times, employed themselves in fishing ; and the fish
they had caught were all dried and salted with salt
they had found upon the sea-shore ; so that by the time
of Pizarro's return, they had laid up a very considera
ble quantity of provisions.
When Pizarro returned, his brother received him with
the greatest cordiality, and asked him what success he
had had 1 Pizarro told him that they had found an im-
mense quantity of gold ; but that several of his com-
panions had perished, and that the rest were almost
starved from the want of provisions : he then requested
that his brother would immediately give him something
to eat, as he assured him he had tasted no food for the
last two days, excepting the roots and bark of trees,
Alonzo then very coolly answered that he should re
member that when they set out they had made an agree
ment that neither should interfere with the other ; tha'
he had never desired to have any share of the gold which
Pizarro might acquire, and therefore he wondered that
Pizarro should expect to be supplied with the provision*
that he had procured w ; th so much care and labour : —
1 But,' added he, ' if you choose to exchange some of
the gold you have found for provisions, I shall perhaps
be able to accommodate you.'
Pizarro thought this behaviour very unkind in his
brother : but as he and his companions were aimos.
ltarved, they were obliged to comply with his demands
which were so exorbitant that in a very short time the"*
04 8ANDF0KD AND AERTOJi.
parted with all the gold they had brought with them
merely to purchase food Alonzo then proposed to hit
brother to embark for Spain in the vessel which had
brought them thither, as the winds and weather seemed
to be most favorable , but Pizarro with an angry look,
told him, that since he had deprived him of every thing
he had gained, and treated him in so unfriendly a man
ner, he should go without him ; for as to himself, he
would rather perish upon that desert shore than embark
with so inhuman a brother.
But Alonzo, instead of resenting these reproaches,
embraced his brother with the greatest tenderness, and
spoke to him in the following manner ; ' Could you
tnen beiieve, my dearest Pizarro, that I really meant
to deprive you of the fruits of all your labors, which you
have acquired with so much toil and danger? Rather
may all the gold in the universe perish, than I should
be capable of such behaviour to my dearest brother!
But I saw the rash, impetuous desire you had of riches,
and wished to correct this fault in you, and serve you
at the same time. You despised my prudence and in-
dustry, and imagined that nothing could be wanting to
him that had once acquired wealth : but you have now
learned, that without that foresight and industry, all the
gold you have brought with you would not have pre-
vented you from perishing miserably. You are now, I
hope, wiser : and therefore take back your riches, which
I hope you have now learned to make a proper use of.'
Pizarro was equally filled with gratitude and astonish-
ment at this generosity of his brother, and he acknowl-
edged, from experience, thai industry was better that
GOLD OR FOOD/ 61
golcL The; then embarked for Spain, where they al
safely arrived. During the voyage, Pizarro often soli
cited his brother to accept of half his riches, which
Alonzo constantly refused, telling him that he that could
laise food enough 10 maintain himself, was in no want
of gold.
' Indeed,' said Tommy, when Mr. Barlow had finished
the story, * I think Alonzo was a very sensible man ;
and, if it had not been for him, his brother and all his
companions must have been starved ; but then this was
only because they were in a desert uninhabited country.
This could never have happened in England ; there
hey could always have had as much corn or bread as
ihey chose for their money.' l But, said Mr. Barlow,
1 is a man sure to be always in England, or some place
where he can purchase bread V Tommy. I believe so
sir. Mr. B. Why, are there not countries in the world
where there are no inhabitants, and where no corn is
raised? T. Certainly, sir ; this country which the two
brothers went to was such a place. Mr. B. And there
are many other such countries in the world. T. But
then a man need not go to them ; he may stay a* home.
Mr. B. Then he must not pass the seas in a ship. T.
Why so, sir ? Mr. B. Because the ship may happen
to be wrecked upon some such country where there are
no inhabitants ; and then, although he should escape
the danger of the sea, what will he do for food? T.
A.nd have such accidents sometimes happened 1 Mr. B.
Yes, several : there was, in particular, one Selkirk, whs
was shipwrecked, and obliged to live several years upon
a desert island. T. That was very extraordinary indeed
86 SANDFORD AND MBRTOXT.
and how did he get victuals ? Mr. B. He sometimiM
procured roots ; sometimes fruits ; he also at last became
so active, that he was able to pursue and catch wild
goats, with which the island abounded. T. And did
not such a hard, disagreeable way of life kill him at last?
Mr. B. By no means : he never enjoyed better health in
his life ; and you have heard that lie became so active
as to be able to overtake the very wild beasis. But a stili
more extraordinary story is that of some Russians, who
tvere left on the coast of Spitzbergen, where they were
obliged to stay several years. T. Where is Spitzbergen,
sir ? Mr. B. It is a country very far to the north,
which is constantly covered with snow and ice, because
the weather is unremittingly severe. Scarcely any
vegetables will grow upon the soil, and scarcely any
animals are found in the country. To add to this, a
great part of the year it is covered with perpetual dark-
ness, and is inaccessible to ships : so that it is impossi-
ble to conceive a more dreary country, or where it must
be more difficult to support human life. Yet four men
were capable of struggling with all these difficulties
during several years, and three of them returned at last
safe to their own country. T. This must be a very curious
story indeed ; I would give any thing to be able to see
it. Mr. B. That you may very easily. When I read
it, I copied off several parts of it, I thought it so curious
and interesting, which I can easily find, and will show
you. Here it is ; but it is necessary first to inform you,
that those northern seas, from the intense cold of the
llimate, are so full of ice, as frequently to render it ex-
\remely dangerous to ships, lest they should be crushed
THE NARRATIVE. 87
between two pieces of immense size, or so completely
surrounded, as not to be able to extricate themselves.
Having given you this previous information, you wil!
easily understand the distressful situation of a Russian
ship, which, as it was sailing on those seas, was on a
sudden so surrounded by ice, as not to be able to move.
My extracts begin here, and you may read them.
Extracts from a Narrative of the extraordinary Adven-
tw~es of Four Russian Sailors, who mere cast aivay
on the Desert Isla?id of East Spitzbergen.
1 In this alarming state (that is, when the ship was sur
rounded with ice) a council was held, when the mate,
Alexis Hinkof, informed them, that he recollected to
have heard, that some of the people of Mesen, some time
before, having formed a resolution of wintering upon
this island, had carried from that city timber proper for
building a hut, and had actually erected one at some dis
tance from the shore. This information induced the
whole company to resolve on wintering there, if the hut,
as they hoped, still existed ; for they clearly perceived
the imminent danger they were in, and that they must
inevitably perish, if they continued in the ship. They
despatched, therefore, four of their crew in search of the
nut, or any other succour they could meet with. These
were Alexis Hinkof, the mate, Iwan Hinkof, his godson,
Stephen Scharassof, and Feodor Weregin.
' As the shore on which they were to land was unin-
habited, it was necessary that they should make some
provision for their expedition. They had almost two
88 SAPJDFORD AND MEHTON.
miles tc travel over those ridges of ice, which being
-aised by the waves, and driven against each other by
ne wind, rendered the way equally difficult and danger-
3us ; prudence, therefore, forbade their loading them-
selves too much, lest, by being overburthened, they
might sink in between the pieces of ice, and perish. —
Having thus maturely considered the nature of their un-
dertaking, they provided themselves with a musket and
powder-horn, containing twelve charges of powder, with
as many balls, an axe, a small kettle, a bag with about
twenty pounds of flour, a knife, a tinder-box and tinder,
a bladder filled with tobacco, and every man his wooden
pipe.
* Thus accoutred, these four sailors quickly arrived
on the island, little expecting the misfortunes that would
befall them. They began with exploring the country,
and soon discovered the hut they were in search of,
about an English mile and a half from the shore. It was
thirty-six feet in length, eighteen feet in height, and as
many in breadth ; it contained a small antichamber,
about twelve feet broad, which had two doors, the one
to shut it up from the outer air, the other to form a com-
munication with the inner room : this contributed greatly to
keep the large room warm when once heated. In the large
room was an earthen stove, constructed in the Russian
manner; that is, a kind of oven without a chimney,
which served occasionally either for baking, for heating
the room, or, as is customary among the Russian pea-
wmts in very cold weather, for a place to sleep upon.—
Our adventurers rejoiced greatly at having discovered
the hut, which had, however, suffered much from thf
THE ISLAND. 89
weather, it having now been built a considerable time .
they, however, contrived to pass the night in it.
1 Early next morning they hastened to the shore, m*
patient to inform their comrades of their success, ana
also to procure from their vessel such provision, ammu-
nition, and other necessaries, as might better enable
them to winter on the island. I leave my readers to
figure to themselves the astonishment and agony of mind
these poor people must have felt, when, on reaching the
place of their landing, they saw nothing but an open sea,
free from the ice, which but a day before had covered
the ocean. A violent storm, which had risen during the
night, had certainly been the cause of this disastrous
event ; but they could not tell whether the ice, which had
before hemmed in the vessel, agitated by the violence of
ihe waves, had been driven against her, and shattered
her to pieces ; or, whether she had been carried by the
current into the main, a circumstance which frequently
happens in those seas. Whatever accident had befallen
the ship, they saw her no more ; and, as no tidings were
ever afterward received of her, it is most probable that
she sunk, and that all on board of her perished.
1 This melancholy event depriving the unhappy
wretches of all hope of ever being able to quit the
island, they returned to the hut, whence they had come
full of horror and despair.' —
* Oh ? dear,' cried Tommy, at this passage, 4 what a
dreadful situation these poor people must have been in-
To be in such a cold country, covered with snow and
frozen with ice, without any body to help them, or gift
8»
00 SANDFORD AND HERTON.
them victuals : I should think they must all have died.
' That you will soon see,' said Mr. Barlow, * when yon
have read the rest of the story : but tell me one thing,
Tommy, before you proceed. These four men were
poor sailors, who had always been accustomed to dan-
ger and hardships, and to work for their living ; do you
think ii would have been better for them to have been
bred up gentlemen, that is, to do nothing, but to have
other people wait upon them in every thing?' * Why.
to be sure,' answered Tommy, ' it was much better for
them that they had been used to work, for that might
enable them to contrive and do something to assist them-
selves, for, without doing a great deal, they must cer-
tainly all have perished.' —
* Their first attention was employed, as may easily be
imagined, in devising means of providing subsistence,
and for repairing their hut. The twelve charges of
powder which they had brought with them, soon pro-
cured them as many rein-deer, the island, fortunately
for them, abounding in these animals. I have before ob-
served, that the hut, which the sailors were so fortunate
as to find, had sustained some damage, and it was this :
there were cracks in many places between the boards
of the building, which freely admitted the air. This
inconvenience was, however, easily remedied as they
had an axe, and the beams were still sound (for wood in
those cold climates continues through a length of years
unimpaired by worms or decay), so it was easy fbr them
to make the boards join again very tolerably ; besides,
moss growing in great abundance all over the island
NECESSITY. 91
there was more than sufficient to stop up the crevices,
which wooden houses must always be liable to. Repairs
of this kind cost the unhappy men less trouble, as thej
were Russians . fcr all Russian peasants are known ta
be good carpenters ; they build their own houses, and
are very expert in handling the axe. The intense cold
which makes these climates habitable to so few species of
animals, renders them equally unfit for the production
of vegetables. No species of tree or even shrub is found
in any of the islands of Spitzbergen ; a circumstance of
the most alarming nature to our sailors.
' Without fire it was impossible to resist the rigor of
the climate, and without wood, how was the fire to be
produced or supported 1 However, in wandering along
the beach, they collected plenty of wood which had been
driven ashore by the waves, and which at first consisted
of the wrecks of ships, and afterward of whole trees with
their roots, the produce of some more hospitable (but to
them unknown) climate which the overflowings of rivers,
or other accidents, had sent into the ocean. Nothing
proved of more essential service to these unfortunate men
during the first year of their exile, than some boards
they found upon the beach, having a long iron hook,
some nails of about five or six inches long, and propor-
tionably thick, and other bits of old iron fixed in them,
the melancholy relics of some vessel, cast away in those
remote parts. These were thrown ashore by the waves
at the time when the want of powder gave our men rea-
son to apprehend that they must fall a prey to hunger,
as they had nearly consumed those rein deer they had
killed. This lucky circumstance was attended «ritk
954 SANDFORD AND MERTOH.
another equally fortunate; they found on the shore the
rcot of a fir tree, which nearly approached to the figure
of a bow. As necessity has ever been the mother of
invention, so they soon fashioned this root to a good
bow by the help of a knife; but still they wanted a string
and arrows. Not knowing how to procure these, at
present, they resolved upon making a couple of lances,
to defend themselves against the white bears, by far the
most ferocious of their kind, whose attacks they had
great reason to dread. Finding they could neither make
the heads of their lances, nor of their arrows without the
help of a hammer, they contrived to form the above-
mentioned large iron hook into one, by beating it, and
widening a hole it happened to have about its middle,
with the help of one of their largest nails ; this received
the handle, and a round button at one end of the hook
served for the face of the hammer. A large pebble sup-
plied the place of an anvil, and a couple of rein-deer's
horns made the tongs. By the means of such tools they
made two heads of spears, and, after polishing and
sharpening them on stones, they tied them as fast as
possible, with thongs made of reindeer's skins, to sticks
about the thickness of a man's arms, which they got
from some branches of trees that had been cast 0.1 shore.
Thus equipped with spears, they resolved to attack a
white bear, and, after a most dangerous encounter, they
killed the formidable creature, and thereby made a new
supply of provisions. The flesh of this animal they
relished exceedingly, as they thought it much resembled
beef in taste and flavour. The tendons, they saw with
much pleasure, could, with little or no trouble, bo dividec
WHITE BEARS, ETC. 91
into filaments of what fineness they thought fit. This
perhaps, was the most fortunate discovery these men
could have made, for, besides other advantages, which
will be hereafter mentioned, they were hereby furnished
with strings for their bow.
* The success of our unfortunate islanders in making
the spears, and the use these proved of, encouraged
them to proceed, and forge some pieces of iron into
heads of arrows of the same shape, though somewhat
smaller in size than the spears above-mentioned. Hav-
ing ground and sharpened these like the former, they tied
them with the sinews of the white bears to pieces of fir,
to which, by the help of fine threads of the same, they
fastened feathers of sea- fowl, and thus became possessed
of a complete bow and arrows. Their ingenuity in this
respect was crowned with success far beyond their ex-
pectation, for, during the time of their continuance upon
the island, with these arrows they killed no less than
two hundred and fifty reindeer, besides a great number
of blue and white foxes. The flesh of these animals
served them also for food, and their skins for clothing,
and other necessary preservatives against the intense
coldness of a climate so near the Pole. They killed,
however, not more than ten white bears in all, and that
not without the utmost danger, for these animals, being
prodigiously strong, defended themselves with astonishing
vigour and fury. The first our men atacked de
signedly • the other nine they slew in defending them
selves from their assaults, for some of these creatures
even ventured to enter the outer room of the hut, in
order to devour them. It is true that all the bears did no?
94 SANDFOKD AND HfiRTO'N.
show (if I may be allowed the expression) equal mtre
pidity, either owing to some being less pressed by hunger
or to their being by nature less carnivorous than thv
others; for some of them which entered the hut, immedi-
ately betook themselves to flight, on the first attempt of the
sailors to drive them away. A repetition, however, oi
these ferocious attacks threw the poor men into grta.
terror and anxiety, as they were in almost a perpetua
danger of being devoured.'
* Sure,' exclaimed Tommy,' * such a life as that must
have been miserable and dreadful indeed. — ' Why so ?
said Mr. Barlow. — Tommy. Because, being always 1 in
danger of being devoured by wild beasts, those men
must have been always unhappy. — Mr. B. And yet
they never were devoured. — T. No, sir ; because they
made weapons to defend themselves. — Mr. B. PerhapvS,
then, a person is not unhappy merely becaus ■.: he is ex-
posed to danger, for he may escape from it, but because
he does not know how to defend himself. — T. I do not
exactly understand you, sir. — Mr. B. I will give you an
instance. Were you not very unhappy when the snake
coiled itself round your leg, because you imagined it
would bite you. T. Yes, sir. — Mr. B. But Harry was
not unhappy. — T. That is very true, sir. — Mr. B. And
yet he was more in danger of being bitten than yourself,
because he took hold of it. — T. Indeed he did. — Mr. B.
But he knew that by boldly seizing it, and flinging it
away, he was in very little danger : had you, therefore,
known the same, you probably would neither have feared
so much, nor have been so unhappy as you were.— 7
COWARDICE. 96
indeed, sir, that is true ; and r were such an accident tc
happen again, I think I should have courage enough to
do the same. — Mr. B. Should you then be as unhappy
now as you were the first time? — T. By no means,
oecause I have a great deal more courage. — Mr. B.
Why, then, persons that have courage are not so un-
happy as those that are cowardly, when they are exposed
to danger. T. Certainly not, sir. — Mr. B. And that
must be equally true in every kind of danger? — T. In-
deed it must ; for I have sometimes heard my mother
shriek out when she was passing in a coach through a
small stream of water, while my father only laughed
at her. — Mr. B. Why, then, if she had possessed as
much courage, perhaps she would have laughed too. — 1
Indeed, I believe she might ; for I have sometimes seen
her laugh at herself, when it was over, for being so
cowardly. — Mr. B. Why, then, it is possible that when
these men found they were so well able to defend them-
selves against the bears, they might no longer be afraid
of them ; and not being afraid, they would not be un-
happy. — T. Indeed, I believe so, — Mr. B. Let us now
continue.
' The tnree different kinds of animals above men-
tioned, viz. the rein-deer the blue and white foxes, and
the white bears, were the only food these wretched
mariners tasted during their continuance in this dreary
abode. We do not at once see every resource; it is
generally necessity which quickens our invention.
opening by degrees our eyes, and pointing out expe-
dients which otherwise might never have occurred to
*ir thoughts. The truth of this observation our four
OtJ SANDFORD AND MERTON.
sailors experienced in various instances. They wen
for some time reduced to the necessity of eating theii
meat almost raw, and without either bread or salt, for
they were quite destitute of both. The intenseness of
the cold, together with the want of proper conveniences
prevented them from cooking their victuals in a proper
manner. There was but one stove in the hut
and that being set up agreeably to the Russian taste,
was more like an oven, and consequently not well adap
ted for boiling any thing. Wood, also, was too precious
a commodity to be wasted in keeping up two fires ; and
the one they might have made out of their habitation,
to dress their victuals, would in no way have served to
warm them. Another reason against their cooking in
the open air was, the continual danger of an attack
from the white bears. And here I must observe that
suppose they had made the attempt, it would still have
been practicable for only some part of the year ; for
the cold, which, in such a climate, for some months
scarcely ever abates, from the long absence of the sun
then enlightening the opposite hemisphere; the incon-
ceivable quantity of snow, which is continually falling
through the greatest part of the winter, together with
the almost incessant rains at certain seasons ; all these
were almost insurmountable to that expedient. To
remedy, therefore in some degree, the hardship of eat-
ing their meat half raw, they bethought themselves of
drying some of their provisions, during the summer in
the open air, and afterwards of hanging it up in the
upper part of the hut, which as I mentioned before, was
continually filled with smoke down to the windows : it
THE LAMP, ETC. Wf
*«8 thus dried thoroughly by the help oi that smoke.
This meat so prepared, they used foi bread, and it
made them relish their other flesh the better, as they
could only halt dress it. Finding this experiment an-
swer in every respect to Uieir wishes, they continued to
practice it during the whole time of their confinement
upon the island, and always kept up, by that means, a
sufficient stock of provisions. Water they had in
summer from small rivulets that fell from the rocks,
and in winter from the snow and ice thawed. This
was, of course iheir only beverage ; and their small
kettle was the only vessel they could make use of for
this and other purposes. I have mentioned above,
that our sailors brought a small bag of flour with them,
to the island. Of this they had consumed about one-
half with their meat; the remainder they employed
in a different manner, equally useful. They soon saw
the necessity of keeping up a continual fire in so cola
a climate, and found that, if it should unfortunately go
out, they had no means of lighting it again ; for though
they had a steel and flints, yet they wanted both match
and tinder. In their excursions through the island they
had met with a slimy loam, or a kind of clay, nearly
in the middle of it. Out of this they found means to
form a utensil which might serve for a lamp, and
they proposed to keep it constantly burning with the
fat Df the animals they should kill. This was certainly
the most rational scheme they could have thought of
for to be without a light in a climate where, during
winter, darkness reigns for several months together
would have added much to their other calamities •'—
9
ft 8ANDF0RD AND MBRTON.
Tommy. Pray, sir, stop. What ! are there countries
in the world where it is night continually for several
months together 1— Mr. Barlow. Indeed there are. — T c
How can that be ? — Mr. B. How happens it thai there
*s night at all? — T. How happens it! It must be so
must it not? — Mr. B. That is only saying that you dn
not know the reason. But do you observe no difference
here between the night and day? — T. Yes, sir, it is light
in the day, and dark in the night. — Mr, B. And why is
it dark in the night?— -T. Really, I do not know. — Mr
B. What ! does the sun shine every night ? — T. No>
sir, certainly. — Mr. B. Then it only shines on some
nights, and not on others. — T. It never shines at all in
the night. — Mr. B. And does it in the day ? — T. Yes,
sir. — Mr. B. Every day? — T. Every day, I believe,
only sometimes the clouds prevent you from seeing it. —
Mr. B. And what becomes of it in the night ? — T. It
goes away, so that we cannot see it. — Mr. B. So, then,
when you can see the sun, it is never night.-— T. No,
sir.-— Mr. B. But when the sun goes away, the night
comes on. — T. Yes, sir. — Mr. B. And when the sun
comes again, what happens? — T. Then it is day again-,
for I have seen the day break, and the sun always rise?
presently after. — Mr. B. Then if the sun were not to
rise for several months together, what would happen?
T. Sure, it would always remain night, and be dark
Mr. B. That is exactly the case with the countries we
are reading about.
' Having, therefore, fashioned a kind of lamp, they
hi led it with vein* deer's fat, and stuck into it
• f &c. -99
twisted linen, shaped into a wick ; but they had tix
mortification to find that, as soon as „ne fat melted, it
not only soaked into the clay, but fairly ran out of it on
all sides. The thing, therefore, was to devise some
means of preventing this inconvenience, not arising
from cracks, but from the substance of which the lamp
was made being too porous. They made, therefore, a
new one, dried it thoroughly in the air, then heated it red-
hot, and afterward quenched it in their kettle, wherein
they had boiled a quantity of flour down to the consist-
ence of thin starch. The lamp being thus dried and
filled with melted fat, they now found, to their great joy,
chat it did not leak ; but for greater security, they dipped
,; nen rags in their paste, and with them covered all its
outside. Succeeding in this attempt, they immediately
made another lamp for fear of an accident, that at all
events they might not be destitute of light ; and when
they had done so much, they thought proper to save the
remainder of their flour for similar purposes. As they
had carefully collected whatever happened to be cast on
shore, to supply them with fuel, they had found amongst
the wrecks of vessels some cordage, and a small quan-
tity of oakum (a kind of hemp used for caulking ships,)
which served them to make wicks for their lamps. —
When these stores began to fail, their shirts and their
drawers {which are worn by almost all Russian peasants)
were employed to make good the deficiency. By these
means they kept their lamp burning without intermis-
sion, from the day they first made it (a work they set
about soon after their arrival on the island) until thtt of
tbeir embarkation for their native country.
100 M.NDV0KD AND MERTOH.
The necessity of converting the most essential part o*
their clothing, such as their shirts and drawers, to the us$
above specified, exposed them the more to the rigour of
the climate. They also found themselves in want of
shoes, boots, and other articles of dress ; and, as wintei
was approaching, they were again obliged to have re*
course to that ingenuity which necessity suggests, and
which seldom fails in the trying hour of distress. They
had skins of rein-deer and foxes in plenty, that had
hitherto served them for bedding, and which they now
thought of employing in some more essential service :
but the question was how to tan them. After deliberat-
ing on this subject, they took to the following method :
Ihey soaked the skins for several days in fresh water, till
Ihey could pull off the hair pretty easily; they then rubbed
Ihe wet leather with their hands till it was nearly dry,
when they spread some melted rein-deer fat over it, and
again rubbed it well. By this process the leather became
Boft, pliant, and supple, proper for answering every pur-
pose they wanted it for. Those skins which they de-
signed for furs, they only soaked for one day, to prepare
I hem for being wrought; and then proceeded in the like
manner before-mentioned, except only that they did not
remove the hair. Thus they soon provided themselves
with the necessary materials for all the parts of dress
they wanted. — But here another difficulty occurred :
they had neither awls for making shoes or boots, noi
needles for sewing their garnrents. This want, how-
ever, tney soon supplied by means of the pieces of iron
thev had occasionally collected. Out of these they mane
^**h and by their industry even brought them to a cer
THE RESCUE. 101
lain degrees ot perfection. The making eyes to theii
needles gave them indeed no little trouble, but this thej
also performed with the assistance of their knife ; for
having ground it to a very sharp point, and heated red-
hot a kind of wire forged for that purpose, they pierced
a hole through one'end, and, by whetting and smoothing
it on stones, brought the other to a point ; and thus
gave the whole needle a very tolerable form. Scissors
to cut out the skin were what they next had occasion for;
but, having none, their place they supplied with the
knife ; and, though there was neither shoemaker nor
tailor amongst them, yet they had contrived to cut out
their leather and furs well enough for their purpose.
The sinews of the bears and the rein-deer, which, as I
mentioned before, they had found means to split, served
them for thread : and thus, provided with the necessary
mplements, they proceeded to make their new clothes.'
' These,' said Mr. Barlow, ' are the extracts which 1
have made from this very extraordinary story ; and
they are sufficient to show both the many accidents to
which men are exposed, and the wonderful expedient
which may be found out, even in the most dismal cir*
cumstances.' * It is very true, indeed," answered
Tommy; but pray, what became of these poor men at
last?' — * After they had lived more than six years upon
this dreary and inhospitable coast,' answered Mr.
Barlow, c a. ship arrived there by accident, which took
three of them on board, and carried them in safety to
.heir own country.' — * And what became of the fourth?'
said Tommy. ' He,' said Mr. Barlow, ' was seized
with a dangerous disease, called the scurvy ; and, bein^
9*
102 IANDFORD AND NEKTON
of an indolent temper, and therefore not using the ©xei*
cise which was necessary to preserve his life, aftei
having lingered some time, died, and was buried in the
snow by his companions.'
Here little Harry came in from his father's house, and
brought with him the chicken, which, it has been mem
tioned, he had saved from the claws of the kite. The
little animal was now perfectly recovered of the hurt it
had received, and shewed so great a degree of affection
to its protector, that it would run after him like a dog,
hop upon his shoulder, nestle in his bosom, and eat
crumbs out of his hand. Tommy was extremely sur-
prised and pleased to remark its tameness and docility,
and asked by what means it had been made so gentle,
Harry told him he had taken no particular pains about
it; but that, as the poor little creature had been sadly
hurt, he had fed it every day till it was well ; and that,
in consequence of that kindness, it had conceived a
great degree of atfection towards him.
i Indeed,' said Tommy. ' that is very surprising ; for
I thought all birds would fly away whenever a man came
near them ; and that even the fowls which are kept at
home would never let you touch them. — Mr. B. And
what do you imagine is the reason of that? — T. Because
they are wild. — Mr. B. And what is a fowl's being
wild ? — T. When he will not let you come near him. —
Mr. B. Then a fowl is wild because it will not let you
come near him ; and will not let you come near him
because he is wild. This is saying nothing more than
that when a fowl is wild, he will not let you approach
aim. But I want to know what is the reason of hit
TAKING aNIMALS, 103
being wild. — T. Indeed, sir, I cannot tell, unless ;- ;s
because they are naturally so. — Mi. B. But if they
were naturally so, this fowl could not be fond of Harry.
T, That is because he is so good to it — Mr. B. Very
Hkeiy. Then it is not natural for an animal to run
away from a person that is good to him. — T. No, sir,
1 believe not. — Mr, B. But when a person is not good
to him, or endeavours to hurt him, it is natural for an
animal to run away from him, is it not? — T. Yes. —
Mr. B. And then you say he is wild, do you not 1 — T.
ifes, sir. — Mr B. Why then it is probable that animal?
are only wild because they are afraid of being hurt, ana
mat they only run away from the fear of danger. I
believe you would do the same from a lion or a tiger. —
T. Indeed I would, sir.— Mr. B. And yet you do not
call yourself a wild animal] — Tommy laughed heartily
at this, and said, No. ' Therefore,' said Mr. Barlow,
* if you want to tame animals, you must be good tc
them, and treat them kindly, and then they will no
longer fear you, but come to you and love ycu.' ' In-
deed,' said Harry, ' that is very true : 'for I knew a little
boy that took a great fancy to a snake that lived in his
father's garden ; and, when he had the milk for break-
fast, he used to sit under a nut tree and whistle, and the
snake would come to him, and eat out of his bowl.' —
T. And Jlid it not bite him 1—H. No : he sometimes
used to give it a pat with his spoon if it ate too fast ■
but it never hurt him.
Tommy was much pleased with this conversation,
and, being both good-natured and desirous of making
experiments, he determined to try his skill in taming
104 SAlfDFOSD AND MERTOH.
animals. Accordingly, hi took a large slice of Dread
in his hand, and went out to seek some animal that he
might give it to. The first thing that he happened to
meet was a sucking pig that had rambled from its
mother, and was basking in the sun. Tommy would
not neglect the opportunity of showing his talents : he
wherefore called, Pig, pig, pig ! come hither, little pig !
But the pig, who did not exactly comprehend his inten-
tions, only grunted, and ran away. * You little ungrate
fill thing,' said Tommy, ' do you treat me in this man
ner, when I want to feed you ? If you do not know
your friends, I must teach you V So saying this, he
sprang at the pig, and caught him by the hind-leg, in-
tending to have given him the bread which he had in
his hand ; but the pig, who was not used to be treated
in that manner, began struggling and squeaking to that
degree, that the sow, who was within hearing, came
running to the place, with all the rest of the litter at her
heels. As Tommy did not know whether she would
be pleased with his civilities to her young one, or not,
he thought it most prudent to let it go ,• and the pig, en-
deavouring to escape as speedily as possible, unfortun-
ately ran between his legs, and threw him down. The
place where this accident happened was extremely wet ;
therefore, Tommy, in falling, dirtied himself from head
to foot ; and the sow, who came up at that instant,
passed < ver him as he attempted to rise and rolled him
back again into the mire.
Tommy, who was not the coolest in his temper, was
extremely provoked at this ungrateful return for his in-
tended kindness ; and, losing all patience, be seised the
THS DI3A.STXB. 101
■ow by tho hind leg, and began pomelling ner with a.V
his might, as she attempted to escape. The sow, as
may be imagined, did not relish such treatment, but en«
endavoured with all her force to escape ; but, Tommy
still keeping his hold, and continuing his discipline, she
struggled with such violence as to drag him several
yards, squeaking at the same time in the most lamenta-
ble manner; in which she was joined by the whole
litter of pigs.
During the heat of this contest, a large flock of geese
happened to be crossing the road, into the midst of which
the affrighted sow ran headlong, dragging the enraged
Tommy at her heels. The goslings retreated with the
greatest precipitation, joining their mournful cackling to
the general noise ; but, a gander of more than common
size and courage, resenting the unprovoked attack
which had been made upon his family, flew at Tommy's
hinder parts, and gave him several severe strokes with
his bill.
Tommy, whose courage had hitherto been uncon-
querable, being thus unexpectedly attacked by a new
enemy, was obliged to yield to fortune, and not
knowing the precise extent of his danger, he not only
suffered the sow to escape, but joined his vociferations
to the general scream. This alarmed Mr. Barlow, who,
coming up to the place, found his pupil in the most
woeful plight., daubed from head to foot, with his face
tnd hands as black as those of any chimney-sweeper.
He inquired what was the matter ? and Tommy, as
soon as he had recovered breath enough to speak,
answered in this manner: 'Sir, all this is owing to
106 SAlfDFOKD AN» MllTOIf.
wnat you told me about taming animals : i wanted to
make them tame and gentle, ano to love me ; and you
see the consequences.' ' Indeed,' said Mr. Barlow, «
see you have been very ill-treated, but I hope you are
not hurt ; and, if it is owing to any thing I have said,
f shall feeL the more concern.' * No,' said Tommy,
'I cannot say that I am much hurV 'Why, then/
said Mr. Barlow, 'you had better go and wash your-
self: and, when you are clean, we will talk over the
affair together.'
When Tommy had returned, Mr. Barlow asked him
how the accident had happened ? and when he had
heard the story, he said, * I am very sorry for your
misfortune ; but I do not perceive that I was the cause
of it : for I do not remember that I ever advised you
to catch pigs by the hinder legs. — Tommy. No, sir;
but you told me that feeding animals was the way to
make them love me ; and so I wanted to feed the pig.
— Mr. B. But it was not my fault that you attempted
it in a wrong manner. The animal did not know your
intentions, and therefore, when you seized him in so
violent a manner, he naturally attempted to escape *
and his mother, hearing his cries, very naturally came
to his assistance. All that happened was owing to
your inexperience. Before you meddle with any ani.
mal, ycu should make yourself acquainted with his
nature and disposition ; otherwise, you may fare like
the little boy, that, in attempting to catch flies, was
stung by a wasp ; or like another, that seeing an addei
■leeping upon a bank, took it for an eel, and was bit-
ten by it , which had nearly cost him his life.— T
TBS MkUFUAWr, tOf
But, sir, I thought Harry had mentioned a little boy that
used to feed a snake without receiving any hurt from
•t. — Mr. B. That might very well happen: there ia
scarcely any creature that will do hurt, unless it is at-
tacked or wants food ; and some of these reptiles are
entirely harmless, others not : therefore the best way is
not to meddle with any till you are perfectly acquaint
ted with its nature. Had you observed this rule, you
never would have attempted to catch the pig by the
hinder leg, in order to tame it : and it is very lucky that
you did not make the experiment upon a larger animal,
otherwise you might have been as badly treated as the
Tailor was by the Elephant. — T. Pray what is this
curious story ? But first tell me if you please, what an
Elephant is ?
An Elephant,' said Mr. Barlow, « is the largest ani-
mal that we are acquainted with. It is many times
thicker than an ox, and grows to the height of eleven
or twelve feet. Its strength, as may be easily imagi-
ned, is prodigious ; but it is, at the same time, so very
gentle, that it rarely does hurt to any thing, even in the
woods where it resides. It does not eat flesh, but lives
upon the fruits and branches of trees. But what is
most singular about its make is, that instead of a nose,
it has a long hollow piece of flesh, which grows over
its mouth to the length of three or . four feet : this is
sailed the trunk of the Elephant ; and he is capable of
bending it in every direction. When he wants to
break off the branch of a tree, he twists his trunk round
it, and snaps it off directly ; when he wants to drink,
he lets it down into the water, sucks up several gallons
108 SANDFORD AND MSBTOlf.
at a time, and then, doubling the end of it back, dis-
charges it all into his mouth.'
* But if he is so large and strong,' said Tommy, « 1
should suppose it must be impossible ever to tame him.'
1 So perhaps it would,' replied Mr. Barlow, ' did they
not instruct those that have been already tamed to
assist in catching others.' — T. How is that, sir ? — Mr,
B. When they have discovered a forest where these
animals resort, they make a large inclosure with strong
pales and a deep ditch, leaving only one entrance to it
which has a strong gate left purposely open. They
then let one or two of their tame Elephants loose, who
join the wild ones, and gradually entice them into the
vnclosure. As soon as one of these has entered, a mar
wlio stooa ready shuts the gates, and takes him prisa
ner. The animal finding himself thus entrapped, be.
gins to grow furious, and attempts to escape : but im-
mediately two tame ones of the largest size and great
est strength, who had been placed there on purpose,
come up to him one on each side, and beat him with
their trunks till he becomes more quiet. A man them
comes behind, ties a very large cord to each of his
hind legs, and fastens the other end of it to two great
trees. He is then left without food for some hours, and
in that time generally becomes so docile, as to suffer
himself to be conducted to the stable that is prepared
for him, where he lives the rest of his life like a horse,
or any other sort of domestic animal. — T. And pray
sir, what did the Elephant do to the Tailor ? ■ There
was,' said Mr. Barlow, « at Surat, a city where many
of these tame Elephants are kept, a Tailor, who used
ELEPHANT AND CMILD. 109
o sit and work in his shed, close to the place to which
these Elephants were led every day to drink. This
man contracted a kind of acquaintance with one of the
'argest of these beasts, and used to present him with
I'vi its and other vegetables whenever the Elephant
hissed by his door. The Elephant was accustomed to
put his long trunk in at the window, and to receive
In that manner whatever his friend chose to give.
But one day, the Tailor happened to be in a more that
ordinary ill-humour, and not considering how danger-
ous it might prove to provoke an animal of that size and
strength, when the Elephant put his trunk in at the
window as usual, instead of giving him any thing to eat
he pricked him with his needle. The Elephant instant
ly withdrew his trunk, and, without shewing any marks
of resentment, went on with the rest to drink ; but, after
he had quenched his thirst, he collected a large quantity
of the dirtiest water he could find in his trunk, which
I have already told you is capable of holding many
gallons ; and, when he passed by the Tailor's shop in
his return, he discharged it full in his face, with so true
an aim, that he wetted him all over, and almost drowned
him ; thus justly punishing the man for his ill-nature
und breach of friendship.'
'Indeed,' said Harry, 'considering the strength of
the animal, he must have had a great moderation and
generosity, not to ha r e punished the man more severely
and therefore I think it is a very great shame to men
rver to be cruel to animals, when they are so affectionate
and humane to them.'
' You are very right/ said Mr. Barlow, « and I It*
10
110 SANDFORD AND MERTOiN.
member another story of an Elephant, which, if truti
is still more extraordinary. These animals, although
in general they are as docile and obedient to the person
that takes care of them, as a dog, are sometimes seized
with a species of impatience which makes them abso-
lutely ungovernable. It is then dangerous to come neai
them, and very difficult to restrain them. I should have
mentioned that in the Eastern parts of the world, where
Elephants are found, the kings and princes keep them
to ride upon as we do horses : a kind of teut or pavil-
ion is fixed upon the back of the animal, in which one
or more persons is placed ; and the keeper that is used
to manage him sits upon the neck of the Elephant, and
guides him by means of a pole with an iron hook at the
end. Now, as these animals are of great value, the
keeper is frequently severely punished if any accident
happens to the animal by his carelessness. But one day,
one of the largest Elephants being seized with a sudden
fit of passion, had broken loose; and, as the keeper
was not in the way, no body was able to appease him,
or dared to come near him. While, therefore, he was
running about in this manner, he chanced to see the
wife of his keeper (who had often fed him as well as
her husband), with her young child in her arms, with
which she was endeavouring to escape from his fury.
The woman ran as fast as she was able : but, finding
that it was impossible for her to escape, because these
beasts, although so very large, are able to run very fast
she resolutely turned about, and throwing her child down
before the Elephant, thus accosted him, as if he rnd
•een capable of understanding her: 'You ungrateful
CLAY H0U8BS. 11
oeast, is this the return you make for all the benefits we
nave bestowed ! Have we fed you, und taken care of
you, by day and night, during so many years, only that
you may at last destroy us all 1 Crush, then, this poor
Innocent child and me, in return for the services that
my husband has done you V — While she was making
inese passionate exclamations, the Elephant approached
the place where the little infant lay, but, instead of
trampling upon him, he stopped short, and looked at him
with earnestness, as if he had been sensible of shame
and confusion ; and, his fury from that instant, abating,
he suffered himself to be led without opposition to his
stable.
Tommy thanked Mr. Barlow for these two stories ;
and promised, for the future, to use more discretion in
his kindness to animals.
The next day Tommy and Harry went into the
garden to sow the wheat which Harry had brought
with him, upon a bed which Tommy had dug for thai
purpose.
While they were at Work, Tommy said, ' Pray
Harry, did you ever hear the story of the men that
were obliged to live six years upon that terrible cold
country (I forget the name of it), where there is nothing
but snow and ice, and scarcely any other animals but
great bears, that are ready to eat men up?' — Harry.
Yesj I have. — T. And did not the very thoughts of it
frighten you dreadfully 1 — H. No, I cannot say they did.
T. Why, snould you like to live in such a country ? —
H. No, certainly ; I am very happy that I was born in
cuch a country as this, where the weather is scarcely
112 SANDFORD AND MEKTON.
ever too hot or too cold : but a man must bear patiently
whatever is his lot in this world. — T. That is true
But should you not cry, and be very much afflicted, if
you were left upon such a country 1 HA should certain!)
be very sorry, if I was left there alone, more especially
as I am not big enough, or strong enough, to defend
myself against such fierce animals; but the crying
would do me no good ; it would be better to do some-
thing, and endeavour to help myself. — T. Indeed 1
think it would : but what could you do ? — H. Why i
would endeavour to build myself a house, if I could
find any materials. — T. And what materials is a house
.Tiade of? I thought it had been impossible to make a
nouse without having a great many people of different
trades, such as carpenters and bricklayers. — H. You
know there are houses of different sizes. The houses
that the poor people live in, are very different from youi
father's house. — T. Yes, they are little, nasty, dirty,
disagreeable places ; 1 should not like to live in them a*,
all. — H. And yet the poor are in general <as strong and
healthy as the rich. But if you could have no other,
vou would rather live in one of them than be exposed
Lo the weather? — T. Yes, certainly. And how would
you make one of them. H. If I could get any wood,
and had a hatchet, I would cut down some branches of
.roes, and stick them upright in the ground, near to each
r,tner. — T. And what then ? — H. I would then get sonic
other branches, but more full of small wood ; and these
I would interweave between them, just as we make
hurdles to confine the sheep : and then, as that migh
not be warm enough to resist the wind and cold,
KINDNESS TO ANIMALS. 119
would cover them over, both within and without, with
clay. T< Clay? what is that? — H. It is a particulai
kind of earth, that sticks to your feet when you tread
upon it, or to your hands when you touch it. — T. I de-
clare I did not think it had been so easy to make a
house, And do vou thimt that people could really live
ii; such houses f H. Certainly they might, because
many persons live in such houses here ; and I have
been told, that in many parts of the world they have
not any other. T. Really, I should like to try to make
a house ; do you think, Harry, that you and I could make
one ? H. Yes, if I had wood and clay enough, I think
I could ; and a small hatchet to sharpen the stakes, and
make them enter the ground.
Mr. Barlow then came to call them in to read ; and
told Tommy, that as he had been talking so much about
good-nature to animals, he had looked him out a very
pretty story upon the subject, and begged that he would
read it well. 4 That I will,' said Tommy ; « for I begin
to like reading extremely : and I think that I am happier
too since I learned it.; for now I can always divert my-
self.' ' Indeed,' answered Mr. Barlow, ' most people
find it so. When any one can read, he will not find the
knowledge any burthen to him : and, it is his own fault
if he is not constantly amused. This is an advantage,
Tommy, which a Gentleman, since you are so fond of
the word, may more particularly enjoy, because he has
10 much time at his own disposal ; and it is much bettei
that he should distinguish himself by having more
knowledge and improvement than others, than by fiiw
10*
114 SANDFORD AND MERTOJS.
slothes, or any such trifles, which any one may havt
that can purchase them, as well as himself.'
Tommy then read, with a clear and distinct voice
the following story of
- The Good-natured Little Boy.
A Little Boy went out, one morning, to walk to a
village about five miles from the place where he lived,
and carried with him, in a basket, the provisions that
was to serve him the whole day. As he was walking
along, a poor little half-starved dog came up to him,
wagging his tail, and seeming to entreat him to take
compassion on him. The little boy at first took nc
notice of him, but at length, remarking how lean and
famished the creature seemed to be, he said, ' This
animal is certainly in very great necessity : If I give
him part of my provisions, I shall be obliged to go
home hungry myself; however, as he seems to want it
more than I do, he shall partake with me,' Saying
this, he gave the dog part of what he had in the bas-
ket, who ate as if he had not tasted victuals for a
fortnight.
The little boy then went on a little farther, his dog
still following him, and fawning upon him with the
greatest gratitude and affection : when he saw a pooi
old horse lying upon the ground, and groaning as if he
was very ill : he went up to him, and saw that he was
almost starved, and so weak that he was unable to rise.
4 1 am very much afraid,' said the little Boy, ' if I stay
fo assist this horse, that it will be dark before I cai
KIXIDNDESS TO ANIMALS. 115
return ; and I have heard that there are several thieves
in the neighbourhood : however, I will try ; it is doing
a good action to attempt to relieve him ; and God Al-
mighty will take care of me. He then went and ga-
thered some grass, which he brought to the horse'a
mouth, who immediately began to eat with as much
relish as if his chief disease was hunger. He then
fetched some water in his hat, which the animal drank
up, and seemed immediately to be so much refreshed
that, after a few trials, he got up, and began grazing.
The little Boy then went on a little farther, and saw
a man wading about in a pond of water, without being
able to get out of it, in spite of all his endeavours
' What is the matter, good man,' said the little Boy to
him ; « can't you find your way out of this pond V
' No, God bless you, my worthy master, or miss, said
the man ; for such I take you to be by your voice : 1
have fallen into this pond, and know not how to get out
again, as I am quite blind, and I am almost afraid to
move for fear of being drowned.' l Well,' said the lit-
tle Boy, * though 1 shall be wetted to the skin, if you
will throw me your stick, I will try to help you out oi
it.' The blind man then threw the stick to that side
on which he heard the voice ; the little boy caught it,
and went into the water, feeling very carefully before
nim, lest he should unguardedly go beyond his depth ,
at length he reached the blind man, took him very care-
fully by the hand, and led him out. The blind man
th'3ri gave him a thousand blessings, and told him he
could grope his way home ; and the little boy ran on as
hard as he could lo prevent being benighted.
».1& SANDFORD AND MERTOfv.
But he had not proceeded far, before he saw ;i pom
Sailor, who had lost both his legs in an engagement by
sea, hopping along upon crutches. ' God bless you
my little master!' said the sailor ; * I have fought many
a battle with the French, to defend poor old England :
but now I am crippled, as you see, and have neithei
victuals nor money, although I am almost famished.
The little boy could not resist his inclination to relieve
him ; so he gave him all his remaining victuals, and
said, * God help you, poor man ! this is all I have,
otherwise you should have more.' He then ran along
and presently arrived at the town he was going to, did
his business, and returned towards his own home, with
all the expedition he was able.
But he had not gone much more than half way,
uefore the night shut in extremely dark, without either
moon or stars to light him. The poor little Boy used
his utmost endeavours to find his way, but unfortunate-
ly missed it in turning down a lane which brought him
into a wood, where he wandered about a great while
without being able to find any path to lead him out.
Tired out at last, and hungry, he felt himself so feeble,
that he could go no farther, but set himself down upon
the ground, crying most bitterly. In this situation he
remained for some time, till at last the little dog, who
had never forsaken him, came up to him wagging his
tail, and holding something in his mouth. The little
Boy took it from him, and saw it was a handkerchief
nicely pinned together, which somebody had dropped,
and the dog had picked up ; and on opening it, he found
several slices of bread and meat, which the little Boy
THE RETURN. li
ate with great satisfaction, and felt himself extremely
refreshed with his meal. ■ So,' said the little Boy, ' i
see that if I have given you a breakfast, you have given
me a supper ; and a good turn is never lost, done even
to a dog.'
He then once more attempted to escape from the
wood ; but it was to no purpose ; he only scratched his
legs with briars, and slipped down in the dirt, without
being able to find his way out. He was just going to
give up all farther attempts in despair, when he hap-
pened to see a horse feeding before him, and, going up
to him, saw, by the light of the moon, which just then
began to shine a little, that it was the very same he had
fed in the morning. ' Perhaps,' said the little Boy, ' this
creature, as I have been so good to him, will let me get
upon his back, and he may bring me out of the wood,
as he is accustomed to feed in this neighbourhood. The
little boy then went up to the horse, speaking to him
and stroking him, and the horse let him mount his back
without opposition ; and then proceeded slowly through
the wood grazing as he went, till he brought him to an
opening, which led to the high road. The little Boy
was much rejoiced at this, and said, 'If I had not saved
this creature's life in the morning, I should have been
obliged to have staid here all night ; I see by this, that
r good turn is never lost.'
But the poor little Boy had yet a greater danger U.
jndergo ; for, as he was going along a solitary lane, two
men rushed out upon him, laid hold of him, and were
going to strip him of his clothes ; but just as they were
beginning to do it, the little dog bit the leg of one of the
118 SANDPCRD AWD MERTON.
men with so much vidence, that he left the little Boy
and pursued the dog, that ran howling and barking
away. In this instant a voice was heard that cried oul
'There the rascals are; let us knock them down!'
which frightened the remaining man so much, that he
ran away, and his companion followed him. The little
Boy then looked up, and saw that it was the Sailor,
whom he had relieved in the morning, carried upon the
shoulders of the blind man whom he had helped out of
the pond. ' There my little dear,' said the Sailor, « God
be thanked ! we have come in time to do you a service,
in return for what you did us in the morning. As I
lay under a hedge I heard these villains talk of robbing
a little boy, who, from the description, 1 concluded must,
be you: but I was so lame, that I should not have been
able to come time enough to help you, if I had not met
this honest blind man, who took me upon his back while
T showed him the way.
The little boy thanked them very sincerely for thus de-
fending him ; and they went all together to his father's
bouse, which was not far off; where they were all kind-
ly entertained with a supper and a bed. The little Boy
took care of his faithful dog as long as he lived, and
never forgot the importance and necessity of doing good
to others, if we wish them to do the same to us.
' Upon my word,' said Tommy, when he had finish-
ed, ' I am vastly pleased with this story ; and I think
that it ma) very likely be true, for I have myself ob»
served that every thing seems to love little Harry here,
merely because he is good-natured to it. I was much
ILL-NATURED BOY il^
surprised to see the great dog, the other day, which 1
have never dared to touch for fear of being bitten,
fawning upon him. and licking him all over : it put me
in mind of the story of Androcles and the Lion.' * Thai
dog,' said Mr. Barlow, ' will be equally fond of you, if
you are kind to him : for nothing equals the sagacity
and gratitude of a dog. But since you have read ^ story
about a good-natured boy, Harry shall read you another,
concerning a boy of a contrary disposition.
The Ill-natured Boy.
There was once a little Boy who was ?o unfortunate
as to have a very bad man for his father, who was al-
ways surly and ill-tempered, and never gave his children
either good instructions or good example ; in conse-
quence of which, this little Boy, who might otherwise
have been happier and better, became ill-natured, quar-
relsome, a-nd disagreeable to every body. He very often
was severely beaten for his impertinence, by bo) r s that
were bigger than himself, and sometimes by boys that
were less : for, though he was very abusive and quar-
relsome, he did not much like fighting, and generally
trusted more to his hee's than his courage, when he had
engaged himself in a quarrel. This little Boy had a
cur-dog that was the exact image of himself; he was
the most troublesome, surly creature imaginable, always
barking at the heels of every horse he came near, and
worrying every sheep he could meet with ; for which
reason both the dog and the boy were disliked by all tbe
neighbourhood.
ISC SANDFORD AND HESTOA.
One morning his father got up early to go to the
alehouse where he intended to stay till night, as it was
k holiday ; but before he went out he gave his son
some bread and cold meat and sixpence ; and told him
he might go and divert himself as he would the whole
lay. The little Boy was much pleased with this liberty ,
and, as it was a very fine morning, he called his dog
Tiger to follow him, and began his walk.
He had not proceeded far before he met a little boy
*hat was driving a flock of sheep towards a gate, that
ne wanted them tc enter. * Pray, master,' said the little
boy, ' stand still and keep your dog close to you, for
fear you frighten my sheep.' * Oh ! yes, to be sure !'
answered the ill-natured Boy, * I am to wait here all the
morning till you and your sheep have passed, I suppose!
Here, Tiger, seize them, boy !' Tiger at this aprang
forth into the middle of the flock, barking and biting on
every side, and the sheep, in a general consternation,
hurried each a separate way. Tiger seemed to enjoy
tuis sport equally with his master ; but in the midst of
his triumph he happened unguardedly to attack an old
ram that had more courage than the rest of the flock ;
he, instead of running away, faced about, and aimed a
blow with his forehead at his enemy, with so much force
and dexterity, that he knocked Tiger over and over, and,
butting him several times while he was down, obliged
him to limp howling away.
The ill-natured little Boy, who was not capable oi
loving any thing, had been much diverted with the tre-
pidation of the sheep ; but now he laughed heartily at
the misfortune of his dog ; and he would have laughed
MISCHIEF. 121
amen longer, had not the other little boy, provoked be»
yond his patience at this treatment, thrown a stone at
him, which hit him full upon the temples, and almost
knocked him down. He immediately bagan to cry, in
concert with his dog, and perceiving a man coming to-
wards them, who he fancied might be the owner of the
sheep, he thought it most prudent to escape as speedily
as possible.
But he had scarcely recovered from the smart which
the blow had occasioned, before his former mischievous
disposition returned, which he determined to gratify to
the utmost. He had not gone far, before he saw a little
girl standing by a stile with a large pot of milk at her
feet. ' Pray,' said the little girl, ' help me up with this
pot of milk : my mother sent me out to fetch it this
morning, and I have brought it above a mile upon my
head ; but I am so tired that I have been obliged to stop
at this stile to rest me ; and if I don't return home pre-
sently, we shall have no pudding to-day, and, besides,
my mother will be very angry with me.' ' What,' said
the Boy, ' you are to have a pudding to-day, are you,
miss V Yes,' said the girl, ' and a fine piece of roast
beef, for there's uncle Will, and uncle John, and grand-
father, and all my cousins, to dine with us ; and we shall
be very merry in the evening, I can assure you ; so
pray help me up as speedily as possible.' c That I will,
miss,' said the Boy ; and, taking up the jug, he pre-
tended to fix it upon her head ; but just as she had hold
of it, he gave it a little push, as if he had stumbled,
tnd overturned it upon her. The little girl began to cry
violently, but the mischievous boy ran away laughing
11
i22 SANDFOKE AND MKRTON.
heartily, and saying, ' Good-bye, little miss ; give my
humble services to uncle Will, and grandfather, and th*
dear little cousins.
This prank encouraged him very much; for he thought
he had now certainly escaped without any bad conse
quences ; so he went on, applauding his own ingenuity,
and came to a green, where several little boys were at
play He desired leave to play with them, which they
allowed him to do. But he could not be contented long,
without exerting his evil disposition; so taking an oppor-
tunity when it was his turn to fling the ball, instead of
flinging it the way he ought to have done, he threw it
into a deep muddy ditch : the little boys ran in a great
hurry to see what was become it ; and as they were
standing together upon the brink, he gave the outermost
boy a violent push against his neighbour ; he, not being
able to resist the violence, tumbled against the next, that
next against another, by which means they were all
soused into the ditch together. They soon scrambled
out, although in a dirty plight, and were going to have
punished him for his ill-behaviour ; but he patted Tiger
upon the back, who began snarling and growling in
such a manner, as made them desist. Thus this mis-
chievous little boy escaped a second time with im-
punity.
The next thing that he met with was a poor jackass feed*
i\g very quietly in a ditch. The little Boy, seeing that
r.obody was within sight, thought this was an opportunity
of plaguing an animal that was not to be lost; so he
went and cut a large bunch of thorns, which he con-
nived to fix upon the poor beast's tail, and then, setting
MORE MISCHIEF. 123
tiger at him, he was extremely diverted to see the frigh.
and agony the creature was in. But it did not fare sc
well with Tiger, who, while he was baying and biting
the animal's heels, received so severe a kick upon his
forehead, as laid him dead upon the spot. The Boy
who had no affection for his dog, left him with the greatest
unconcern, when he saw what had happened, and find-
ing himself hungry, sat down by the way side to eat
his dinner.
He had not been long there, before a poor blind man
came groping his way out with a couple of sticks.
1 Good morning to you, gaffer,' said the Boy ; * pray
did you see a little girl come this road, with a basket
of eggs upon her head, dressed in a green gown, with
a straw hat upon her head !' God bless you, master,'
said the beggar, ' I am so blind that I can see nothing ;
1 have been blind these twenty years ; and they call me
poor old blind Richard.'
Though this poor man was such an object of charity
and compassion, yet the little Boy determined, as usual,
to play him some trick ; and, as he was a great liar and
deceiver, he spoke to him thus : ' Poor old Richard ! 1
am heartily sorry for you with all my heart : I am just
eating my breakfast, and if yoa will sit down by me, I
will give you part, and feed you myself.' ' Thank you
with all my heart,' said the poor man ; ' if you will give
me your hand, I will sit by you with great pleasure, my
dear, good little master !' The little Boy then gave him
his hand, and, pretending to direct him, guided him tc
sit down in a large heap of wet dung that lay by the
road side. « There,' said he, ' now you are nicely seated
124 SANDFORD AND MERTOK.
and I will feed you.' So, taking a little in his fingers
he was going to put it into the blind man's mouth: bus
the man, who now perceived the trick that had been
played him, made a sudden snap at his fingers, and get-
ting them between his teeth, bit them so severely, that
the wicked boy roared out for mercy, and promised never
more to be guilty of such wickedness. At last the blind
man, after he had put him to very severe pains, con-
sented to let him go, saying as he went, « Are you not
ashamed, you little scoundrel, to attempt to do hurt to
those who never injured you, and to want to add to the
sufferings of those, who are already sufficiently misera-
ble ? Although you escape now, be assured, that, if
you do not repent and mend your manners, you will
meet with a severe punishment for your bad behaviour.'
One would think, that this punishment should have
cured him entirely of his mischievous disposition ; but,
unfortunately, nothing is so difficult to overcome as bad
habits that have been long indulged. He had not gone
far, before he saw a lame beggar that just made a shift
to support himself by the means of a couple of sticks.
The beggar asked him to give him something ; and the
little mischievous boy, pulling out his sixpence, threw it
down just before him, as if he intended to make him a
present of it ; but, while the poor man was stooping
with difficulty to pick it up, this wicked little Boy knock-
ed the stick away ; by which means the beggar fell
down upon his face ; and then, snatching up the sixpence,
the Boy ran away, laughing very heartily at the acci*
dent.
This was the last trick this ungracious boy had it ir-
THE PUNISHMENT 191
fits power to play ; for, seeing two men come up to the
beggar, and enter into discourse with him, he was afraid
of being pursued, and therefore ran as fast as he was
able over several fields. At last he came into a lane
which led to a farmer's orchard, and as he was pre.
paring to clamber over the fence, a large dog seized him
by the leg, and held him fast. He cried out in an agony
of terror, which brought the farmer out, who called the
dog off, but seized him very roughly, saying, ' So ! sir,
you are caught at last, are you 1 You thought you
might come day after day and steal my apples, without
detection ; but it seems you are mistaken, and now you
shall receive the punishment you so long deserved.
The farmer then began to chastise him very severely with
a whip he had in his hand, and the Boy in vain pro-
tested he was innocent, and begged for mercy. At last
the farmer asked him who he was, and where he lived ;
but when he heard his name, he cried out, « What, are
you the little rascal that frightened my sheep this morn-
ing, by which means several of them are lost ; and do
you think to escape?' Saying this he lashed him more
severely than before, in spite of all his cries and pro-
testations. At length, thinking he had punished him
enough, he turned him out of the orchard, bade him
go home, and frighten sheep again, if he liked the con-
sequences.
The little Boy slunk away, crying very bitterly, (for
he had been very severely beaten) ; and now began tc
find that no one can long, hurt others with impunitv '.
so he determined to go quietly home, and behave bettei
hi the future.
11*
{26 SANDFORD ANT> MERTOIf.
But his sufferings were not yet at an end ; for as he
jumped down from a stile, he felt himself very rougnly
seized, and, looking up, found that he was in the powef
of the lame beggar whom he had thrown upon his face
It was in vain that he now cried, entreated, and begged
pardon : the man, who had been much hurt by his fall,
thrashed him very severely with his stick, before he
would part with him. He now again went on, crying
and roaring with pain, but at least expected to escape
without farther damage. But here he was mistaken ;
for as he was walking slowly through a lane, just as he
turned a corner, he found himself in the middle of the
very troop of boys that he had used so ill in the morn-
ing. They all set up a shout as soon as they saw their
enemy in their power without his dog, and began perse-
cuting him a thousand various ways. Some pulled him
by the hair, others pinched him ; some whipped his
legs with their handkerchiefs, while others covered him
with handfuls of dirt. In vain did he attempt to escape ;
they were still at his heels, and, surrounding him on
every side, continued their persecutions. At length,
while he was in this disagreeable situation, he happened
to come up to the same jackass he had seen in the
morning, and, making a sudden spring, jumped upon his
back, hoping by these means to escape. The boys im-
mediately renewed their shouts, and the ass who was
frightened at the noise, began galloping with all his
nmght, and presently bore him from the reach of his
enemies. But he had but liWle reason to rejoice at this
escape, for he found it impossible to stop the animal, and
aras every instant afraid of being thrown off, and dashed
RBFEKTANCS. 197
upon the ground. After he had been thus hurried along
a considerable time, the ass on a sudden stopped short
at the door of a cottage, and began kicking and prancing
with so much fury, that the little Boy was presently
thrown to the ground, and broke his leg in the falh
His cries immediately brought the family out, among
whom was the very little girl he had used so ill in the
morning. But she, with the greatest good nature, seeing
him in such a pitiable situation, assisted in bringing him
n, and laying him upon the bed. There this unfortunate
Boy had leisure to recollect himself, and reflect upon his
cwn bad behaviour, which in one day's time had ex-
posed him to such a variety of misfortunes ; and he
determined with great sincerity, that, if ever he re-
covered from his present accident, he would be as careful
to take every opportunity of doing good, as he had
before been to commit every species of mischief.
When the story was ended, Tommy said it was very
surprising to see how differently the two little boys fared.
The one little boy was good-natured ; and therefore every
thing he met, became his friend, and assisted him in re-
turn : the other, who was ill-natured, made every thing
his enemy, and therefore he met with nothing but mis-
fortunes and vexations, and nobody seemed to feel any
compassion for him excepting the poor little girl that
Hssisted him at last , which was very kind indeed of her,
considering how ill she had been used.
' That is very true, indeed,' said Mr. Barlow, c nooody
i* loved in this world unless he loves others and doe*
*ood to tnem ; and nobody can tell but one time or othei
i£8 SaNDFORD AND MERTON.
he may want the assistance of the meanest and lowest
therefore every sensible man will behave well to even
Jiing around him : he will behave well, because it is his
duty to do it, because every benevolent person feels the
greatest pleasure in doing good, and even because it is
his own interest to make as many friends as possible.
No one can tell, however secure his present situation
may appear, how soon it may alter, and he may have
occasion for the compassion of those who are now infi-
nitely below him. I could show you a story to that
purpose, but you have read enough, and therefore you
must now go out and use some exercise.'
1 Oh ! pray, sir,' said Tommy, * do let me hear the
story : I think I could now read for ever, without being
tired.' * No,' said Mr. Barlow, ' every thing has its turn.
To morrow you shall read, but now we must work in
the garden.' ' Then pray, Sir,' said Tommy, ' may I
ask a favour of you V ' Surely,' answered Mr. Barlow :
1 if it is proper for you to have, there is nothing can give
me a greater pleasure than to grant it.' ' Why, then,'
said Tommy, * I have been thinking that a man should
know how to do every thing in the world.' Mr. B. —
Very right: the more knowledge he acquires the better.
T. — And, therefore, Harry and I are going to build a
house. Mr. B. — To build a house ? Well, and have
you laid in a sufficient quantity of brick and mortar?
* No, no,' said Tommy, smiling Harry and I can
ouild houses without brick and mortar.' Mr. B. — What
sre they to be made of, then — cards 1 « Dear sir,' an-
fwered Tommy, c do you think we are such little child*
: *o as to want card houses ? No : we are going to
THE WOODEN HOUSE. 129
build real houses, fit for people to live in. And then,
you know, if ever we should be thrown upon a desert
coast, as the poor men were, we shall be able to supply
ourselves with necessaries, till some ship comes to take
us away.' Mr. B — And if no ship should come, what
then 1 T. — Why, then, we must stay there all our lives,
I am afraid. Mr. B. — If you wish to prepare yourselves
against the event, you are much in the right, for nobody
knows what may happen to him in this world. What
is it, then, you want, to make your house? 2v— The
first thing we want, sir, is wood and a hatchet. Mr,
B. — Wood you shall havf- in plenty : but did you ever
use a hatchet 1 T. — No, sir. Mr. B. — Then I am
afraid to let you have one, because it is a very danger-
ous kind of tool and if you are not expert in the use of
it, you may wound yourself severely. But if you will
let me know what you want, I, who am more strong
and expert, will take the hatchet and cut down the wood
for you. * Thank you, sir,' said Tommy; 'you arf
very good to me, indeed.' And away Harry and he ran
to the copse at the bottom of the garde.i.
Mr. Barlow then went to work, and presently, by
Harry's direction, cut down several poles about as thick
as a man's wrist, and about eight feet long ; these he
sharpened at the end, in order to run into the ground ;
and so eager were the two little boys at the business,
that in a very short time they had transported them aP
to the bottom of the garden ; and Tommy entirely for
got he was a gentleman, and worked with the great
tst eagerness.
• Now,' laid Mr. Barlow, • where will you fix
IW SANDF0RD AND MERTON.
house?' 'Here, 1 think,' answered Tomm), 'just a^
the bottom of this hill, because it will be warm ano
sheltered,'
So Harry took the stakes, and began to thrust them
into the ground, at about the distance of a foot, and in
this manner he enclosed a piece of ground which was
about ten feet long, and eight feet wide ; leaving an
opening in the middle, of three feet wide, for a door.
After this was done, they gathered up the brushwood
that was cut off, and, by Harry's direction, they inter-
wove it between the poles, in such a manner as to form
a compact kind of fence. This labour, as may be ima-
gined, took them up several days : however they worked
at it very hard every day, and every day the work ad-
vanced ; which filled Tommy's heart with so much
pleasure, that he thought himself the happiest little boy
in the universe.
But this employment did not make Tommy unmind-
ful of the story which Mr. Barlow had promised him; it
was to this purport :
The Story of the Grateful Turk.
It is too much to be lamented, that different nations
frequently make bloody wars with each other ; and wher
they take any of their enemies prisoners, instead of using
thena well, and restoring them to liberty, they confine
them in piisons, or sell them as slaves. The enmity
arat there has often been between many of the Italian
States (particularly the Venitians) and the Turkt, if
sufficient! y known.
THB GRATEFUL TUBK. 131
It once happened that a Venitia/i ship had taken
many of the Turks prisoners, and, according to the
barbarous customs I have mentioned, these unhappy
men had been sold to different persons in the city. By
accident, one of the slaves lived opposite to the house
of a rich Venitian, who had an only son, of about the
age of twelve years. It happened that this little boy
used frequently to stop as he passed near Hamet (for
that was the name of the slave,) and gaze at him very
attentively. Hamet, who remarked in the face of the
child the appearance of good-nature and compassior
used always to salute him with the greatest courtesy
and testified the greatest pleasure in his company. At,
length the little boy took such a fancy to the slave, that
ne used to visit him several times in the day, and
brought him such little presents as he had it in his power
to make, and which he thought would be of use to his
friend.
But though Hamet seemed always to take the great*
st delight in the innocent caresses of his little friend ;
yet the child could not help remarking that Hamet
was frequently extremely sorrowful, and he often sur-
prised him on a sudden when tears were trickling
down his face, although he did his utmost to conceal
them. The little boy was at length so much affected
with the repetition of the sight, that he spoke of it to
his father, and begged of him, if he had it in his power,
to make poor Hamet happy. The father who was ex-
tremely fond of his son, find besides had observed that
he seldom requested any thing which was not generous
183 SANDFOBD AND MERTON.
and humane, determined to see the Turk himself, snd
tah* „o him.
Accordingly he went to him next day ; and, ob
serving him for some time in silence, was struck with
the extraordinary appearance of mildness and honesty
which his countenance discovered. At length, he said
to him, ' Are you that Hamet of whom my son is so
fond, and of whose gentleness and courtesy I have so
often heard him talk?' * Yes,' said the Turk, 'I am
that unfortunate Hamet, who have now been for three
years a captive : during that space of time, your son
(if you are his father) is the only human being that
seems to have felt any compassion for my sufferings;
therefore, I must confess, he is the only object to
which I am attached in this barbarous country ; and
night and morning I pray that Power, who is equally
the God of Turks and Christians, to grant him every
blessing he deserves, and to preserve him from all the
miseries I suffer.'
' Indeed, Hamet,' said the Merchant, ' He is mucn
obliged to you, although from his present circum-
stances, he does not appear much exposed to danger.
But tell me, for I wish to do you good ; in what can 1
assist you ? for my son informs me, that you are the
prey of continual regret and sorrow.'
Is it wonderful,' answered the Turk, with a glow of
generous indignation that suddenly animated his counte-
nance, ' is it wonderful that I should pine in silence, and
mourn my fate, who am bereft of the first and noblest
present of nature — my liberty V * And yet,' an
THB GRATEFUL TURK. 133
swered the Venetian, ' how many thousands of our na-
tion do vou leiain in fetters?'
'I am not answerable,' said the Turk, 'for th*
cruelty of our countrymen, more than you are for the
barbarity of yours. Kut as to myself, I have never
practised the inhuman custom of enslaving my fellow-
creatures ; I have never spoiled the Venetian merchants
of their property to increase my riches : 1 have always
respected the rights cf nature, and therefore it is the
more severe.' He/e a tear started from his eye, and
wetted his manly cheek : instantly however he recol-
lected himself, and folding his arms upon his bosom
and gently bowing his head, he added, ' God is good ; and
man must submit to his decrees.'
The Venetian was affected with this appearance of
manly fortitude, and said : ' Hamet, I pity your suffer-
ings, and may perhaps be able to relieve them* What
would you do to regain your liberty V l What would
I do !' answered Hamet ; by the eternal Majesty of
Heaven, 1 would confront every pain and danger thru
can appal the heart of man !' * Nay,' answered the
Merchant, * you will not be exposed to a trial. The
means of your deliverance are certain, provided your
courage does not belie your appearance.' * Name them !
name them !' cried the impatient Hamet ; ' place death
before me in every horrid shape, and if I shrink' —
* Patience,' answeied the Merchant, we shall be ob-
served. But hear me attentively. I have in this city
an inveterate foe, who lias heaped upon me every injury
which can most bitteily sting the heart of man. This
man is brave as he is haughty : and I must
19
134 SANDFORD AND MBRTON.
that the dread of his strength and valour has hithent
deterred me from resent ng his insults as they deserve.
Now, Hamet, your look, your form, your words, con-
vince me that you were born for manly daring. Take
this dagger ; as soon as the shades of night involve the
city, I will myself conduct you to the place, where you
may at once revenge your friend, and regain your
freedom '
At this proposal, scorn and shame flashed from the
kindling eye of Hamet, and passion for a considerable
time deprived him of the power of utterance ; at length
he lifted his arm as high as his chains would permit,
and cried, with an indignant tone, ' Mighty prophet ! a:: a
are these the wretches to whom you permit your faithful
votaries to be enslaved ! Go, base Christian, and know
that Hamet would not stoop to the vile trade of an assas-
sin for all the wealth of Venice 1 No ! not to purchase
the freedom of all his race !'
At these words, the Merchant, without seeming much
abashed, told him he was sorry he had offended him ;
but that he thought freedom had been dearer to him than
he found it was. * However/ added he, as he turned
nis Lack, ' you will reflect upon my proposal, and per-
haps by to-morrow you may change your mind.' Ha-
met disdained to answer ; and the Merchant went bis
way.
The next day, however, he returned in company with
his son, and mildly accosted Hamet thus : * The ab-
ruptness of the proposal I yesterday made you, migh
perhaps astonish you : but I am now come to discourse
TH1 ESC A PI, 186
M matter more calmly with you, and I doubt net, when
you have heard my reasons ' —
* Christian !' interrupted Hamet, with a severe but
composed countenance, ' cease at length to insult the
miserable with proposals more shocking than even these
chains. If thy religion permit such acts as those, know
that they are execrable and abominable to the soul or
every Mahometan : therefore, from this moment let us
break off all farther intercourse, and be strangers to
each other.'
' No,' answered the Merchant, flinging himself into
the arms of Hamet, • let us from this moment be more
closely linked than ever ! Generous man, whose virtues
may at once disarm and enlighten thy enemies ! Fond
ness for my son first made me interested in thy fate
but from the moment that I saw thee yesterday, I de
mined to set thee free : therefore pardon me this unne-
cessary trial of thy virtue, which has only raised thee
higher in my esteem. Francisco has a soul which is as
averse to deeds of treachery and blood, as even Hamet
himself. From this moment, generous man, thou art
free; thy ransom is already paid, with no other obliga-
tion than that of remembering the affection of this thy
young and faithful friend ; and perhaps, hereafter, when
thou seest an unhappy Christian groaning in Turkish
fetters, thy generosity may make thee think of Venice.'
Tt is impossible to describe the ecstasies or the grati-
rude of Hamet at this unexpected deliverance : I will
not therefore attempt to repeal what he said to his be
nefactors ; I will only add, that he was that day pe'
free; and Francisco embarked him on board sl «*•:
lS6 SAUDFORD AND MERTOIf.
which was going to one of the Grecian islands, took
leave of him with the greatest tenderness, and forced
him to accept a purse of gold to pay his expenses. Nor
was it without the greatest regret that Hamet parted
from his young friend, whose disinterested kindness had
thus produced his freedom ; he embraced him with an
agony of tenderness, wept over him at parting, and
prayed for every blessing upon his head.
About six months after this transaction, a sudden
fire burst forth in the house of this generous Merchant.
It was early in the morning, when sleep is the most
profound, and none of the family perceived it till almost
the whole building was involved in flames. The fright-
ed servants had just time to waken the Merchant and
hurry him down stairs ; and the instant he was down,
the stair -case itself gave way, and sunk with a horrid
crash into the midst of the fire.
But if Francisco congratulated himself for an instant
upon his escape, it was only to resign himself immediately
after to the most deep despair, when he found, upon in-
quiry, that his son, who slept in an upper apartment, had
been neglected in the general tumult, and was yet
amidst the flames. No words can describe the father's
agony j he would have rushed headlong into the fire,
but was restrained by his servants • he then raved in an
agony of grief, and offered half his fortune to the in
trepid man who would risk his life to save his cmld.
As Francsco was known to be immensely rich, several
tadders were in an instant raised, and several daring
tfpirits, incite 1 by the vast reward, attempted the adven-
tJtff 1 tkf vVenc. Q of the fames, however, which bunt
TH1 GRATEFUL iLAVl. 191
forth ai every window, together with the ruins tkat fell
on every side, drove them all back ; and the unfortunate
youth, who now appeared upon the battlements, 3tretch
ing out his arms, and imploring aid, seemed to be des
tined to certain destruction.
The unhappy father now lost all perception, and sunk
down in a state of insensibility ; — when, in this dreadful
moment of general suspense and agony, a man rushed
through the opening crowd, mounted the tallest of the
ladders with an intrepidity that showed he was resolved
to succeed or perish, and instantly disappeared. A sud-
den gust of smoke and flame burst forth immediately
ifter, which made the people imagine he was lost ;
when, on a sudden, they beheld him emerge again with
.1 e child in his arms, and descend the ladder without any
material damage. A universal shout of applause now
resounded to the skies: but what words can give an
adequate idea of the father's feelings, when, on recover-
ing his senses, he found his darling miraculously pre-
Berved, and safe within his arms ?
After the first effusions of his tenderness were over,
he asked for his deliverer, and was shown a man of a
noble stature, but dressed in mean attire, and his fea-
tures were so begrimmed with smoke and filth, that it
was impossible to distinguish them. Francisco, how-
ever, accosted him with courtesy, and, presenting him
with a purse of gold, begged he would accept of thai
for the present, and that the next day he should re-
ceive to the utmost ot his promised reward. — ! No,
generous Merchant,' answered the stranger, * I do nol
sell mv blood.'
12*
138 SANDFORD AND METCTOT*.
* Gracious heavens !' cried the Merchant ; * sure I
rh'iuid know that voice! — It is' 'Yes,' exclaimed
the son, throwing himself into the arms of his deliverer
' it is my Hamet !'
It was indeed Hamet who stood before them in the
same mean attire which he had worn six months before,
when first the generosity of the Merchant had re-
deemed him from slavery. Nothing could equal the
astonishment and gratitude of Fransisco : but as they
were then surrounded by a large concourse of people,
he desired Hamet to go with him to the house of one
of his friends ; and when they were alone, he embraced
him tenderly, and asked by what extraordinary chance
he had thus been enslaved a second time? adding
a kind of reproach for his not informing him of his
captivity.
* I bless God for that captivity,' answered Hamet,
since it has given me an opportunity of showing that
was not altogether undeserving of your kindness, and
of preserving the life of that dear youth that I value a
thousand times beyond my own. — But it is now fit that
my generous patron should be informed of the whole
truth. Know then, that when the unfortunate Hamet
was taken by your galleys, his aged father shared his
captivity : it was his fate which so often made me shed
those tears which first attracted the notice of your son :
and when your unexampled bounty had set me free, 1
flew to find the Christian who had purchased him. I
represented to him that I was young and vigorous,
while he was aged and infirm : I added too the gold
which I had received from your bounty : in a word, I
THF M'OODKN HOT*SK. 189
prevailed upon the Christian to send back my father in
that ship which was intended for me, without acquain-
ting him with the means of his freedom : — since that
time I have staid here to discharge the debt of nature
and gratitude, a willing slave' —
At this part of the story, Harry who had with diffi-
pulty restrained himself before, burst into such a fit of
crying, and Tommy himself was so much affected, that
Mr. Barlow told them they had better leave off for the
j:>esent, and go to some other employment. They
therefore want into their garden to resume the labour of
their house : but found, to their unspeakable regret, that,
during their absence, an accident had happened, which
had entirely destroyed all their labours : a violent storm
of wind and rain had risen that morning, which, blow-
ing full against the walls of their newly-constructed
house, had levelled it with the ground. Tommy could
scarcely refrain from crying when he saw the ruins
lying around ; but Harry, who bore the loss with more
composure, told him not to mind it, for it could be easily
repaired, and they would build it stronger the next time.
Harry then went up to the spot, and after examining
it some time told Tommy that he believed he had found
out the reason of their misfortune. — 'What is it?' said
Tommy. — : Why,' said Harry, c it is only because
we did not drive these stakes, which are to bear the
whole weight of our house, far enough into the ground :
and, therefore, when the wind blew against the flat
side of it with so much violence, it could not resist.
And now 1 remember to have seen the workmen, when
they begin a building, dig a considerable way into the
140 SANDFORI) AND MKRTON.
ground, to lay the foundation fast : and I should think,
that, if we drove these stakes a great way into the
ground, it would produce the same effect, and we should
have nothing to fear from any future storms.'
Mr. Barlow then came into the garden, and the two
boys shewed him their misfortune, and asked him
whether he did not think that driving the stakes further
in would prevent such an accident for the future? Mr.
Barlow told them he thought it would ; and that, as they
were too short to reach to the top of the stakes he would
assist them. He then went in and brought a wooden
mullet, with which he struck the tops of the stakes, and
drove them so fast into the ground, that there was nc
longer any danger of their being shaken by the
weather. Harry and Tommy then applied themselves
with so much assiduity to their work, that they in a
very short time had repaired all the damage, and advanced
it as far as it had been before.
The next thing that was necessary to be done, was
putting on a roof: for hitherto they had constructed
nothing but the walls. For this purpose they took
several other long poles, which they had laid across
their building where it was mos' narrow : and upon
these they placed straw in considerable quantities, so
that they now imagined they nad constructed a house
that would completely screen them from the weather.
But in this, unfortunately, they were again mistaken;
'or a very violent shower of rain coming just as they
had finished their building, they took shelter under it,
and remarked for some time, with infinite pleasure, how
dry and comfortable it kept them : but at last, the straw
THE WOODEN HOUSE. 14l
that covered it being completely soaked through, and the
water having no vent to run off, by reason of the fiat
ness of the roof, the rain began to penetrate in consider-
able quantities.
For some time Harry and Tommy bore the incon-
reniency ; but it increased so much, that they were soon
obliged to leave it and seek for shelter in the house.
When they were thus secured, they began again to con
sider the affair of the house ; and Tommy said, that it
surely must be because they had not put straw enough
upon it. ' No,' said Harry ; ' I think that cannot be the
reason ; I rather imagine that it must be owing to our
roof lying so flat : for I have observed, that all the houses
that I have ever seen, have their roofs in a shelving pos-
ture, by which means the wet continually runs off from
them, and falls to the ground ; whereas ours, being quite
flat, detained almost all the rain that fell upon it, which
must necessarily soak deeper and deeper into the straw,
till it penetrated quite through.
They therefore agreed to remedy this defect; and for
this purpose they took several poles of an equal length,
the one end of which they fastened to the side of the
house, and let the other two ends meet in the middle ;
by which means they formed a roof, exactly like that
which we commonly see upon buildings : they also took
several poles, which they tied across the others, to keep
them firm in their places, and give the roof additional
strength ; and, lastly, they covered the whole with straw
or thatch , and for fear the thatch should be blown aw v?
Lhey stuck several pegs in different places, and put small
pieces of stick crosswise from peg to peg, to keep *Jm
£42 SANDFORE AND MERTON.
straw in its place. When this was done, they fotuic
they had a very tolerable house ; only the sides, being for
mod of brushwood alone, did not sufficiently exclude the
wind. To remedy this inconvenience, Harry, who was
chief architect, procured some clay, and mixing it up
with water, to render it sufficiently soft, he daubed it all
over the walls, boih within and without, by which
means the wind was excluded, and the house rendered
much warmer than before.
Some time nad now elapsed since the seeds of the
wheat were sown, and they began to shoot so vigorously,
that the blade of the corn appeared green above the
ground, and increased every day in strength. Tommy
went to look at it every morning, and remarked its
gradual increase with the greatest satisfaction. ' Now,'
said he to Harry, { I think we should soon be able to live,
if we were upon a desert island. Here is a house to
shelter us from the weather, and we shall soon have
some corn for food.' — ' Yes,' answered Harry : ' but
there are a great many things still wanting to enable us
to make bread.'
Mr. Barlow had a very large garden, and an orchard
full of the finest fruit trees ; and he had another piece
of ground where he used to sow seeds in order to raise
trees ; and then they were carefully planted out in beds,
till they were big enough to be moved into the orchard,
and produce fruit. Tommy had often eaten of the fruit
of the orchard, and thought it delicious : and this led
lim to think that, it would be a great improvement tc
their house, if he had a few trees that he might set neat
it, and which would shelter it from the sun, and here'
SOWING AND PLANTING, 142
ifter produce fr lit : so he desired Mr. Barlow to give
him a couple of trees, and Mr. Barlow told him to go
into the nursery and take his choice. Accordingly
Tommy went, and chose out two of the strongest-look
Ing trees he could find, which, with Harry's assistance
he transplanted into the garden in the following man
ner ; — They both took their spades, and very carefully
dug the trees up without injuring their roots : then they
dug two large holes in the place where they chose the
trees should stand, and very carefully broke the earth
to pieces, that it might Me light upon the roots : then the
tree was pldCod in the middle of the hole, and Tommy
held it upright, while Harry gently threw the earth over
.he roots, which he trod down with his feet, in order to
cover them well. Lastly, he stuck a large stake in the
ground, and tied the tree to it, from the fear that the
wintry wind might injure it, or perhaps entirely blow it
out of the ground.
Nor did they bound their attention here. There was
a little spring of water, which burst forth from the upper
ground in the garden, and ran down the side of the hill
in a small stream. Harry and Tommy laboured very
hard for sevual days to form a new channel to lead the
water near the roots of their trees, for it happened to be
hot and dry weather, and they feared their trees might
perish from the want of moisture.
Mr. Barlow saw them employed in this manner with
the greatest satisfaction. H^ told them that, in many
parts of the world, the excessive heat burned up the
ground so much that nothing would grow, unless the
soil was watered in that manner. « There is,' said «e
144 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
1 a country in particular, called Egypt, which has always
been famous for its fertility, and for the quantity of corn
that grows in it, which is naturally watered in the fol-
'owing extraordinary manner : — There is a great rive*
called the Nile, which flows through the whole extern
of the country ; the river, at a particular time of the
year, begins to overflow its banks ; and as the whole
country is flat, it very soon covers it all with its waters.
These waters remain in this situation several weeks,
before they have entirely drained off; and when that
happens, they leave the soil so rich that every thing
that is planted in it flourishes, and produces with the
greatest abundance.
' Is not that the country, Sir,' said Harry, ' where
that cruel animal the crocodile is found ?' * Yes,' an-
swered Mr. Barlow. « What is that, sir V said Tommy.
1 It is an animal,' answered Mr. Barlow, * that lives
sometimes upon the land, sometimes in the water. It
comes originally from an egg, which the old one lays
and buries in the sand. The heat of the sun then
warms it during several days, and at last a young
crocodile is hatched. This animal is at first very small :
it has a long body and four short legs, which serve it
both to walk with upon the land, and to swim with in
the waters. It has besides, a long tail ; or rather the
body is extremely long, and gradually grows thinner,
till it ends in a point. Its shape is exactly like that ot
i lizard ; or, if you have never seen a lizard, did you
n jver observe a small animal, of some inches long,
which lives at the bottom of ditches and ponds?' * Yes
sir I have,' answered Tommv : ' and I once caught out
THF CROCODILE. 45
vith my hand, taking it for a fish ; but when I hai it
near me, I saw it had four little legs, so I threw it into
ihe water again, for fear the animal should be hurt.'
1 This animal,' answered Mr. Barlow, ' may give you
an exact idea of a young crocodile ; but as it grows
older, it gradually becomes bigger, till at last, as I have
been informed, it reaches the length of twenty or thirty
feet.' « That is very large,' said Tommy ; ' and does it
do any harm ]' ' Yes,' said Mr. Barlow ; 'it is a very
voracious animal, and devours every thing it can seize.
It frequently comes out of the water, and lives upon the
shore, where it resembles a large log of wood : and if
any animal unguardedly comes near, it snaps at it on a
sudden, and if it can catch the poor creature, devours
it. — T. And does it never devour men ? — Mr. B.
Sometimes, if it surprises them : but those who are ac-
customed to meet with them frequently, easily escape.
They run round in a circle, or turn short on a sudden,
by which means the animal is left far behind ; because,
although he can run tolerably fast in a straight line, the
great length of his body prevents him from turning with
ease. — T. This must be a very dreadful animal to
meet with ? is it possible for a man to defend himself
against it 1 — Mr. B. Every thing is possible to those
that have courage and coolness : therefore many of the
inhabitants of those countries carry long spears in their
hands, in order to defend themselves from those animals.
The crocodile opens his wide voracious jaws in order
to devour the man ; but the man takes this opportunity,
and thrusts the point of his spear into the creature's
mouth, by which means he is generally killed upon tb«
13
146 SANDFORD AND MEHTON.
spot. Nay, I have even heard that soma will carry
their hardiness so far as to go into the water, in ordof
to fight the crocodile there. They take a large splinter
of wood, about a foot in length, strong in the middle, and
sharpened at both ends ; to this they tie a long and tough
cord. The man who intends to fight the crocodile taKC3
this piece of wood in his right hand, and goes into the
river, where he wades till one of these creatures perceives
him. As soon as that happens, the animal comes up to
him to seize him, extending his wide and horrid jaws,
which are armed with several rows of pointed teeth ; but
the manwith the greatest intrepidity, waits for his enemy,
and, the instant he approaches, thrusts his hand, armed
with the splinter of wood, into his terrible mouth, which
the creature closes directly, and by these means forces the
sharp points into each of his jaws, where they stick fast.
He is then incapable of doing hurt, and they pull him
to the shore by the cord. * Pray, sir,' said Tommy, < is
this dreadful animal capable of being tamed V ' Yes,'
answered Mr. Barlow ; < T believe, as I have before told
you, there is no animal that may not be rendered mild
and inoffensive by good usage. There are several parts
of Egypt where tame crocodiles are kept ; these animals
though of the largest size, never do hurt to any thing,
but suffer every one to approach them, and even little
children to play about thern, and ride securely upon their
enormous backs.'
This account diverted Tommy very much. He
thanked Mr. Barlow for giving him this description of
the crocodile, and said he should like to see every ani-
mal in trte world. ' That,' answered Mr. Barlow, ' wili
TAMING ANIMALS 147
oe extremely difficult, as almost every country produces
some kind which is not found in other parts of the
world: but, if you will be contented to read the descrip.
tions of them which have been written, you may easilv
gratify your curiosity/
It happened, about this time, that Tommy and Harry
rose early one morning, and went to take a long walk
before breakfast, as they used frequently to do ; they
rambled so far, that at last they both found themselves
tired, and sat down under a hedge to rest. While they
were here a very clean and decently dressed woman
passed by ; who seeing two little boys sitting by them-
selves, stopped to look at them, and, after considering
them attentively, she said, * You seem, my little dears,
to be either tired, or to have lost your way.' ' No,
madam,' said Harry, ' we have not lost our way, but we
have walked farther than usual this morning, and we
wait here a little while to rest ourselves.' 'Well,'
said the woman, « if you will come into my little house,
that you see a few yards farther on, you may sit more
comfortably ; and as my daughter has by this time
milked the cows, she shall give you a mess of bread
and milk.'
Tommy, who was by this time extremely hungry as
well as tired, told Harry that he should like to accept
the good woman's invitation : so they both followed hef
lo a small but clean looking farm house, whicn stood at
a little distance. Here they entered a very dear.
Kitchen, furnished with very plain but convenient fur
niture, and were desired to sit down by a warm and
comfortable fire, which was made of turf. Tommy wh«
148 SANDF0RD AND MERTON.
had never seen such a fire, could not help inquiring
about it, and the good woman told him that poor people
like her were unable to purchase coals : ' therefore,' said
she, f we go and pare the surface of the commons,
which is full of grass, and heath, and other vegetables
together with their roots all matted together ; these we
dry in small pieces, by leaving them exposed to the
summer's sun, and then we bring them home, and put
them under the cover of a shed, and use them for our
fires.' ' But,' said Tommy, « I should think you would
hardly have fire enough by these means to dress your
dinner : for I have by accident been in my father's
kitchen when they were dressing dinner, and I saw a
fire that blazed up to the very top of the chimney.'
The poor woman smiled at this, and said, ' Your father,
I suppose, master, is some rich man who has a great deal
of victuals to dress, but we must be more easily content-
ed.' — ' Why said Tommy, * you must at least want to
roast meat every day.' — * No,' said the poor woman,
* we seldom see roast beef in our house, but we are
very well contented if we can have a piece of fat pork
every day, boiled in a pot with turnips : and we bless
God that we fare so well, for there are many poor souls,
who are as good as we. that can scarcely get a morsel
of dry bread.'
As they were conversing in this manner, Tommy
happened to fast his eyes on one side, and saw a room
that was almost filled with apples. * Pray,' said he,
what can you do with all these apples ? I should think
you would never be able to eat them, though you were
lo eat nothing Ise.' — * That is very true,' said the
MAKING CIDER 149
woman, ' but we make cider of them,' — * What,' cried
Tommy, ' are you able to make that sweet pleasant
liquor they call cider ; and is it made of apples ?—
The Woman Yes indeed it is. — Tommy. And pray
how is it made? — The Woman. We take the apples
when they are ripe, and squeeze them in a machine we
have for that purpose. Then we take this pulp, and
put it into large hair bags, which we press in a great
press, till all the juice runs out. — Tommy. And is this
juice cider? — The Woman. You shall taste, little
master, as you seem so curious.
She then led him into another room, where there was
a great tub full of the juice of apples, and, taking some
up in a cup, she desired him to taste whether it was
cider ? Tommy tasted, and said it was very sweet and
pleasant, but not cider. ' Well,' said the woman, ' let us
try another cask.' She then took out some liquor out
of another barrel, which she gave him, and Tommy when
he had tasted it, said that it really was cider. — < But
pray,' said he, * what do you do to the apple-juice, to make
it cider?' — The Woman. Nothing at all. — Tommy.
How then should it become cider? for I am sure what
you gave me at first is not cider. — The Woman. Why,
we put the juice into a large cask, and let it stand in some
warm piace, where it soon begins to ferment. — Tommy.
Ferment : pray what is that ? The Woman. You
shall see.
She then shewed him another cask, and bade him
observe the liquor that was in it. This he did, and saw
it was covered all over with a thick scurn and froth. —
Tbmm>f And is this what you call fermentation?—
13*
150 SANDFORD AND MEHTOH
The Woman. Yes, master. — Tommy. And what i*
the reason of it? — The Woman. That I do not know,
indeed : but when we have pressed the juice out, sn 1
told you, we put it into a cask, and let it stand in some
warm place ; and in a short time it begins to work or
ferment of itself, as you see; and after this fermenta
tion has continued some time, it acquires the taste and
properties of cider, and then we draw it off into casks
and sell it, or else keep it for our own use. And I am
told this is the manner in which they make wine in other
countries. — Tommy. What, is wine made of apples,
then? — The Woman. No, master; wine is made of
grapes, but they squeeze the juice out, and treat it in the
same manner as we do the juice of the apples. — Tommy.
I declare this is very curious, indeed. Then cider is
nothing but wine made of apples V
While they were conversing in this manner, a little
clean girl came and brought Tommy an earthen por-
ringer full of new milk, with a large slice of irown
bread. Tommy took it and ate with so good a relish
that he thought he had never made a better breakfast
in his life.
When Harry and he had eaten their breakfast
Tommy told him it was time they should return home,
•o he thanked the good woman for her kindness, and
putting his hand into his pocket, pulled out a shilling
which he desired her to accept. 'No, God bless you
my little dear !' said the woman, ' I will not take a
farthing of you for the world. What, though my
ausband and I are poor, yet we are able to get a living
THE BAILIFFS. 1 .
by our labour, and give a mess of milk tc a traveller with,
out hurting ourselves.'
Tommy thanked her again, and was just going away,
when a couple of surly-looking men came in, and asked
the woman if her name was Tosset ? * Yes, it is,' said
the woman : ' I have never been ashamed of it.' ' Why,
then,' said one of the men, pulling a paper out of his
pocket, ' here is an execution against you, on the part of
Mr. Richard Gruff: and if your husband does not instant-
ly discharge the debt, with interest and all costs, amount-
ing altogether to the sum of thirty-nine pounds ten shil-
lings, we shall take an inventory of all you have, and
proceed to sell it by auction for the discharge of the
debt.'
4 Indeed,' said the poor woman, looking a little con-
fused, ' this must certainly be a mistake, for I never
heard of Mr. Richard Gruff in all my life, nor do I be-
lieve that my husband owes a farthing in the world, un-
less to his landlord ; and I know that he had almost made
up half a year's rent for him : so that I do not think
he would go to trouble a poor man.' ' No, no, mistress,'
said the man shaking his head, ' we- know our business
too well to make these kind of mistakes : but when voui
husband comes in, we '11 talk with him ; in the mean-
time we must go on with our inventory.'
The two men then went into the next room ; and im-
mediately after, a stout comely-looking man, of about
the age of forty, came in, with a good-humoured coun-
tenance, and asked if his breakfast was ready ? — « Oh !
my poor dear William,' said the woman, ' here is a sad
oreakfast for you : but I think it Gannot be true thai
158 SANDFQKB AK» MBRTON.
you owe any thing: so what the fellows told me must
be false about Richard Gruff.' At this name the man
instantly started, and his countenance, which was before
ruddy, became pale as a sheet. « Surely,' said the
woman, ' it cannot be true, that you owe forty poundi
to Richard Gruff? ' Alas V answered the man, « I do
not know the exact sum : but when your brother Peter
failed, and his creditors seized all that he had, this Rich-
ard Gruff was going to send him to jail, had not I
agreed to be bound for him ; which enabled him to go to
sea : he indeed promised to remit his wages to me, to pre-
vent my getting into any trouble upon that account ; but
you know it is now three years since he went ; and in
all that time we have heard nothing about him.' ' Then,'
said the woman, bursting into tears, * you, and all your
poor dear children are ruined for my ungrateful brother
for here are two bailiffs in the house, who are come to
take possession of all you have, and to sell it.'
At this the man's face became red as scarlet ; and
seizing an old sword which hung over the chimney, he
cried out, * No it shall not be ; I will die first ; I wili
make these villains know what it is to make honest men
desperate.' He then drew the sword, and was going on
in a fit of madness, which might have proved fatal
either to himself or to the bailiffs ; but his wife flung
herself upon her knees before him, and catching hold of
his legs, besought him to be more composed. ' Oh ! foi
Heaven's sake, my dear, dear husband,' said she, ' con*
«ider what you are doing ! You can do neither me noi
your children any service by this violence ; instead of
mat, should you be so unfortunate as to kill either of
THE ANGRY FATHER. 159
these men, would it not be murder T and would not ou
lot be a thousand times harder than it is at present.
This remonstrance seemed to have some effect upon
the farmer: his children too, although too young to
understand the cause of all this confusion, gathered
round him, and hung about him, sobbing in concert
with their mother. Little Harry too, although a stranger
to the poor man before, yet with the tenderest sympathy
took him by the hand, and bathed it with his tears. A.
length, softened and overcome by the sorrows of tnose
he loved so wdl, and by his own cooler reflections, he
resigned the fatal instrument, and sat himself down upon
a chair, covering his face with his hands, and only say-
; ng, ' The will of God be done !'
Tommy had beheld this affecting scene with the great-
est attention, although he had not said a word ; and now,
beckoning Harry away, he went silently out of the house,
and took the road which led to Mr. Barlow's. While he
was on the way, he seemed to be so full of the scene
which he had just witnessed, that he did not open his
lips : but when he came home, he instantly went to Mr.
Barlow, and desired that he would directly send him to
his father's. Mr. Barlow stared at the request, and
asked him what was the occasion of his being so sud
denly tired with his residence at the vicarage ? ' Sir,'
answered Tommy, « I am not the least tired, I assure
you ; you have been extremely kind to me, and I shah
always remember it with the greatest gratitude : but I
warn to see my father immediately, and I am sure, when
jrou come to know the occasion, you will not disapprove
of it.' Mr. Barlow did not press him any farther, but
„54 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
ordered a careful servant to saddle a horse directly, and
take Tommy home before him.
Mr. and Mrs. Merton were extremely surprised an
overjoyed at the sight of their son, who thus unexpect-
edly arrived at home : but Tommy, whose mind was
full of the project he had formed, as soon as he hac
answered their first questions, accosted his father thus
1 Pray sir will you be angry with me, if I ask you foi
a great favour?' — < No, surely,' said Mr. Merton, ' that
I will not.' — * Why then,' said Tommy, « as I have often
heard you say that you were very rich, and, that, if 1
was good, I should be rich too, will yop give me some
money ?'• — ' Money !' said Mr. Merton ; ' yes to be sure :
how much do you want ?'— -< Why, sir,' said Tommy, ' 1
want a very large sum indeed.' — * Perhaps a guinea,' an-
swered Mr. Merton. — To?nmy. No, sir, a great deal
more ; a great many guineas — Mr. Merton. Let us
however see. — T. Why, sir, I want at least forty pounds.
— * God bless the boy !' answered Mrs. Merton ; * surely
Mr. Barlow must have taught him to be ten times more
extravagant than he was before. — T. Indeed, madam,
Mr. Barlow knows nothing about the matter. — « But, said
Mr. Merton, ' what can such an urchin as you want with
such a large sum of money ? — ' Sir,' answered Tommy,
1 that is a secret : but I am sure when you come to hear it,
you will approve of the use I intend to make of it.' — Mr.
M. That I very much doubt. — T. But, sir if you please,
vou may let me have this money, and I will pay you
again by degrees. — Mr. M. How will you ever be able to
pay me such a sum? — T. Why, sir, you know you
•fa ao kind as frequently to give me new clothes and
OENEROUS BOY. 156
pocket money : now, if you will only let me have thi*
money, I will neither want new clothes nor any thing
else, ti'l you have made it up. — Mr. M. But what can
such a child as you want with all this money 1 — Pray,
sir, wait a few days, and you shall know ; and if I make
had use of it, never believe me again as long as I live.
Mr. Merton was extremely struck with the earnest-
ness with which his son persevered in the demand ; and
as he was both very rich and liberal, he determined to
hazard the experiment, and comply with his request.
He accordingly went and fetched him the money which
he asked for, and put it into his hands ; telling him at
the same time, that he expected to be acquainted with
the use he put it to : and that if he was not satisfied
with the account, he would never trust him again.
Tommy appeared in ecstacies at the confidence that was
reposed in him, and, after thanking his father for his
extraordinary goodness, he desired leave to go back
again with Mr. Barlow's servant.
When he arrived at Mr. Barlow's his first care was
.0 desire Harry to accompany him again to the farmer's
house. Thither the two little boys went with the great-
est expedition : and, on their entering the house, found
the unhappy family in the same situation as before.
But Tommy who had hitherto suppressed his feelings,
finding himself now enabled to execute the project he
had formed, went up to the good woman of the house,
who sat sobbing in a corner of the room, and, taking
her gently by the hand, said, ' my good woman, you
were very kind to me in the morning, and therefore 1
am deter mind to be kind to you in return.' — * God bleu
156 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
you, my little master,' said the woman, * you are Ten
welcome to what you had ; but you are not able to do
any thing to relieve our distress.' — ' How do you know
that V said Tommy ; ' perhaps I can do more for you
than you imagine.'—' Alas !' answered the woman, i I
believe you would do all you could : but all our goods
will be seized and sold, unless we can immediately raise
the sum of forty pounds ; and that is impossible, for we
have no earthly friend to assist us ; therefore my poor
babes and I must soon be turned out of doors; and God
alone can keep them from starving.'
Tommy's little heart was too much affected to keep
the woman longer in suspense ; therefore, pulling out his
bag of money, he poured it into her lap, saying, « Here,
my good woman, take this, and pay your debts ; and
God bless you and your children !' It is impossible to
express the surprise of the poor woman at the sight ; she
stared wildly round her, and upon her little benefactor,
and, clasping her hands together in an agony of gratitude
and feeling, she fell back in her chair, with a kind of
convulsive motion. Her husband, who was in the next
room, seeing her in this condition, ran up to her, and,
catching her in his arms, asked her with the greatest ten-
derness, what was the matter : but she, springing on a
sudaen from his embraces, threw herself upon her knees
before the little boy, sobbing and blessing with a broken
inarticulate voice, embracing his knees and kissing his
feet. The husband, who did not know what had hap.
nened, imagined that his wife had lost her senses; and
the little children, who had before been skulking about
4v» room ran up to their mother, pulling her by tin
A FRIEND IT NEED. 157
gown, and hiding their faces in her bosom, But th*
woman, at the sight of them, seemed fo recollect herself,
and cried out, • Little wretches, who must all have been
starved without the assistance of this little angel, why
do you not join with me in thanking him?' — At this, the
husband said, ' Surely, Mary, you must have lost your
senses. What can this young gentleman do for us, or
to prevent our wretched babes from perishing V — ' Oh !
William,' said the woman, ' I am not mad, though I
may appear so: but look here, William, look what
Providence has sent us by the hands of this little angel,
and then wonder not that I should be wild.' Saying
this, she held up the money, and at the sight her husband
looked as wild and astonished as she. But Tommy
went up to the man, and, taking him by the hand, said,
■ My good friend, you are very welcome to this ; I freely
give it you ; and I hope it will enable you to pay what
you owe, and to preserve these poor little children.'
But the man, who had before appeared to bear his mis-
fortunes with silent dignity, now burst into tears, and
sobbed like his wife and children : but Tommy who now
began to be pained with this excess of gratitude, went
silently out of the house, followed by Harry ; and be»
fore the poor family perceived what was become of him,
was out of sight.
When he came back to Mr. Barlow's, that gentleman
received him with the greatest affection, and when he
had inquired after the health of Mr. and Mrs. Merton,
asked Tommy whether he had forgotten the story of the
grateful Turk? Tommy told him he had not, and
14
158 SANDFORD AND MKRTON.
should now be very glad to hear the remainder ; wh\c&
Mr. Barlow gave him to read, and which was as follows
Continuation of the History of the Grateful Turk.
When Hamet had thus finished his story, the
Venetian was astonished at the virtue and elevation of his
mind; and, after saying every thing that his gratitude and
admiration suggested, he concluded with pressing him
to accept the half of his fortune, and to settle in Venice
for the remainder of his life. This offer Hamet refused
with the greatest respect, but with a generous disdain ;
and told his friend that, in what he had done, he had
only discharged a debt of gratitude and friendship. — ' You
were, said he, ' my generous benefactor, you had a
claim upon my life by the benefit you had already con-
ferred ; that life would have been well bestowed had it
been lost in your service ; but since Providence hath
otherwise decreed, it is a sufficient recompence to me
to have proved that Hamet is not ungrateful, and to
have been instrumental to the preservation of your
happiness.'
But though the disinterestedness of Himet made him
under-rate his own exertions, the Merchant could not
remain contented, without shewing his gratitude by all the
means within his power. He therefore once more pur-
chased the freedom of Hamet, and freighted a ship on
purpose to send him back to his own country, he and
his son then embraced him with all the affection that
gratitude could inspire, and bado him, as they thought,
*n ete r nai adieu.
THE GRATEFUL SLAVE. 15ft
M&ny years had now elapsed since the departure ol
Hamet into his own country: without their seeing him,
or receiving any intelligence from him. In the meats
time, the young Francisco, the son of the Merchant,
grew up to manhood ; and as he had acquired, every
accomplishment which tends to improve the mind, ci
form the manners, added to an excellent disposition, he
was generally beloved and esteemed.
It happened that some business about this time made it
necessary for him and his father to go to a neighbouring
maritime city ; and as they thought a passage by sea
.vould be more expeditious, they both embarked in a
/enetian vessel, which was on the point of sailing to
hat place. They set sail, therefore, with favourable
winds, and every appearance of a happy passage : but
they had not proceeded more than half their intended
voyage, before a Turkish corsair) a ship purposely fitted
out for war) was seen bearing down upon them ; and as the
enemy exceeded them much in swiftness they soon found
that it was impossible to escape. The greater part of
the crew belonging to the Venetian vessel was struck
with consternation, and seemed already overcome by
fear; but the young Francisco, drawing his sword, re-
proached his comrades with their cowardice, and so
effectually encouraged them, that they determined to de-
fend their liberty by a desperate resistance. The Turkish
vessel now approached them in awful silence ; but in an
nstantthe dreaaful noise of the artillery was heara, and
he heavens were obscured with smoke intermixed with
transitory flashes of fire. Three times did the Turks
kap with horrid shouts upon the deck of the Venetian
160 SA.NUFORD AND MERTOV.
vessel and three times were they driven back by the
desperate resistance of the crew, headed by young Fran.
cisco. At length the slaughter of their men was so great,
that they seemed disposed to discontinue the fight, and
were actually taking another course. The Venetians
beheld their flight with the greatest joy, and were
congratulating each other upon their successful valour
and merited escape, when two more ships on a sudden
appeared in sight, bearing down upon them with incredi-
ble swiftness before the wind. Every heart was now
chilled with new terrors, when, on their nearer approach,
they discovered the fatal ensignsoftheirenemies, and knew
that there was no longer any possibility either of resist-
ance or escape. They therefore lowered their flag (the
sign of surrendering their ship), and in an instant saw
themselves in the power of their enemies, who came pour-
ing in on every side with the rage and violence of beasts
of prey.
All that remained alive of the brave Venetian crew
were loaded with fetters, and closely guarded in the hold
of the ship till it arrived at Tunis.
They were then brought out in chains, and exposed
in the public market to be sold for slaves. They had
there the mortification to see their companions picked out
one by one, according to their apparent strength and vi-
gour, and sold to different masters. At length a Turk
approached,who from his look and habit, appeared to be
of superior rank and, after glancing his eye over the rest
with an expression of compassion, he fixed them at last
WjKUi young Francisco, and demanded of the captain of
HAMET. 161
the ship what was the price of that young man ? The
captain answered that he would not take less than five
hundred pieces of gold for that captive. ' That,' said the
Turk, ' is very extraordinary since I have seen you sell
those that much exceed him in vigour, for less thon a fifth
part of that sum.' — 'Yes,' answered the captain, ' but he
shall eitner pay me some part of the damage he has
occasioned, or labour for life at the oar.' — 'What damage,
answered the other, 'can he have done you more than all
the rest whom you have prized so cheaply?' — 'He it
was,' replied the captain; 'who animated the Christians tc
that desperate resistance which cost me the lives of so
many of my brave sailors. Three times did we leap
upon their deck, with a fury that seemed irresistible: and
three times did that youth attack us with such cool, de-
termined opposition, that we were obliged to retreat in-
gloriously, leaving at every charge twenty of our num-
ber behind. Therefore, I repeat it, I will either have
that price for him great as it may appear, or else I will
gratify my revenge, by seeing him drudge for life in my
victorious galley.'
At this the Turk examined young Fransisco with new
attention : and he, who had hitherto fixed his eyes upon
the ground, in sullen silence, now lifted them up ; but
scarcely had he beheld the person that was talking to
the captain, when he uttered a loud cry, and repeated
the name of Hamet. The Turk, with equal emotion,
furveyed him for a moment, and then, catching him iD
his arms, embraced him with the transports 01 a parent
who unexpectedly recovers a long-lost child. It is un
necessary to repeat all that gratitude and affection in
14*
162 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
spired Hamet to say, but when he heard that his anciens
benefactor was amongst the number of those unhappy
Venetians who stood before him, he hid his face for a
moment under his vest, and seemed overwhelmed with
sorrow and astonishment : when, recollecting himself, he
raised his arms to heaven, and blessed that Providence
which had made him the instrument of safety to his an
cient benefactor. He then instantly flew to that part of
the market where Francisco stood waiting for his fate,
with a manly, mute despair. He called him his friend,,
his benefactor, and every endearing name which friend-
ship and gratitude could inspire; and, ordering his
chains to be instantly taken off, he conducted him and
his son to a magnificent house, which belonged to him
in the city. As soon as they were alone, and had time
for an explanation of their mutual fortunes, Hamet told
the Venetians that, when he was set at liberty by theit
generosity, and restored to his country, he had accepted
a command in the Turkish armies : and that, having had
the good fortune to distinguish himself on several occa
sions, he had gradually been promoted, through various
offices, to the dignity of Bai»haw of Tunis. « Since ]
nave enjoyed this post,' added he, ■ there is nothing
which I find in it so agreeable as the power it gives me of
alleviating the misfortunes of those unhappy Christians
who are taken prisoners by our corsairs. Whenever a
ship arrives which brings with it any of these sufferers,
I constantly visit the markets and redeem a certain
number of the captives, whom I restore to liberty. And
gracious Allah has shown that he approves of these faint
endeavours to discharge the sacred duties of gratitude
J Hi: SAVOYARDS. 163
for my own redemption, by putting it in my power to
•erve the best and dearest of men.'
Ten days were Francisco and his son entertained in
the house of Hamet : during which time he put in prac-
tise every thing within his power to please and inter-
est them, but when he found they were desirous of re-
turning home, he told them he would no longer detain
them from their country, but that they should embark
the next day, in a ship that, was setting sail for Venice.
Accordingly, on the morrow he dismissed them, with
many embraces, and much reluctance, and ordered a
chosen party of his own guards to conduct them on
board their vessel. When they arrived there, their joy
and admiration were considerably increased on finding
that, by the generosity of Hamet, not only the ship
which had been taken, but the whole crew, were re-
deemed, and restored to freedom. Francisco and his son
embarked, and after a favourable voyage, arrived with-
out accident in their own country, where they lived
many years respected and esteemed, continually mind-
ful of the vicissitude of human affairs, and attentive
to discharge their duties to their fellow creatures.
When this story was concluded, Mr. Barlow and
his pupils went out to walk upon the high roaa, but
they had not gone far, before they discovered three men
who seemed each to lead a large and shaggy beast by
ft string, followed by a crowd of boys and women.,
whom the novelty of the sight had drawn together.
When they approached more near, Mr. Barlow disco
vered that the boasts were three tame bears, led Dy as
(64 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
many Savoyards, who get their living by exhibiting them
Upon the head of each of these formidable animals was
seated a monkey, who grinned and chattered, and by hi*
strange grimaces, excited the mirth of the whole assembly.
Tommy, who had never before seen one of these crea-
tures, was very much surprised and entertained. But
still more so, when he saw the animal rise upon his hind
legs at the word of command, and dance about in a
strange, uncouth manner, to the sound of music.
After having satisfied themselves with this spectacle,
they proceeded on their way, and Tommy asked Mr.
Barlow whether a bear was an animal easily tamed, and
that did mischief in those places where he was wild?
'The bear,' replied Mr. Barlow, « is not an animal quite
so formidable or destructive as a lion or a tiger ; he is
however, sufficiently dangerous, and will frequently de-
vour women and children, and even men, when he has
an opportunity. These creatures are generally found in
cold countries, and it is observed, that the colder the
climate is, the greater size and fierceness do they attain
to. You may remember, in the account of those poor
men, who were obliged to live so long upon a dreary an* 4
uninhabited country, that they were frequently in danger
of being devoured by the bears that, abounded in that
place. In those Northern countries, which are perpet-
ually covered with snow and ice, a species of bear is
found which is white in colour, and of amazing strength
as veil as fierceness. These animals are often seen
da.Yibering over the huge pieces of ice that almost cover
those seas, and preying upon fish and other sea animals
i remember reading an account of one that came une*
WHITE BEARS. *66
p^tsdly upon some sailors who were boiling their Jin
ners on the shore. This creature had two young ones
with her. and the sailors, as you may easily imagine,
did not like such dangerous guests, but made their escape
immediately to the ship. The old bear then seized upoo
the flesh which the sailors had left, and set it before her
cubs, reserving a very small portion for herself; shew
ing by this, that she took a much greater interest in
their welfare than her own. But the sailors, enraged at
the loss of their dinners, levelled their muskets at the
cubs, and, from the ship, shot them both dead. They
also wounded the dam, who was fetching away another
piece of flesh, but not mortally, so that she was still able
to move. But it would have affected any one with pity,
but a brutal mind (says the relation), to see the behaviour
of this poor beast, all wounded, as she was, and bleeding,
to her young ones. Though she was sorely hurt, and
could but crawl to the place where they lay, she car-
ried the lump of flesh she had in her mouth, as she had
done the precedings ones, and laid it down before them,
and, when she observed that they did not eat, she laid her
paws first upon one, and then upon the other, and endea-
voured to raise them up, all this while making the most
pitiful moans. When she found that they did not stir,
she went away to a little distance, and then looked back
and moaned, as if to entice them to her ; but finding them
still immoveable, she returned, and smelling round them,
began to lick their wounds. She then went off a second
time as before, and, after crawling a few yards, turned
back and moaned, as if to entreat them not to deser?
heir mother. But her cubs not yet rising to follow her
(66 SA.Frt>FORD AND MERTON.
she returned to them again, and frith signs of inexpre*
Bible fondness, went round first one, and then the other,
pawing them and moaning all the time. Finding them
at last cold and lifeless, she raised her head towards the
ship, and began to growl in an indignant manner, as ii
she were denouncing vengeance against the murderers
of her young, but the sailors levelled their muskets again,
and wounded her in so many places, that she dropped
down between her young ones : yet, even while she was
expiring, she seemed only sensible to their fate, and died
licking their wounds.
'And is it possible,' said Harry, * that men can be so
cruel towards poor unfortunate animals?' — ' It is too
true>' answered Mr. Barlow, 'that men are frequently
guilty of every wanton and unnecessary act of barba-
rity, but, in this case, it is probable, that the fear of
these animals contributed to render the sailors more un-
pitying than they would otherwise have been : they had
often seen themselves in danger of being devoured, and
that inspired them with a great degree of hatred against
them, which they took the opportunity of gratifying,' —
c But would it not be enough,' answered Harry, ' if they
carried arms to defend themselves when they were at-
tacked, without unnecessarily destroying other creatures,
who did not meddle with them V — ' To be sure it would,'
replied Mr. Barlow, ' and a generous mind would at any
time rather spare an enemy than destroy him.'
While they were conversing in this manner, they be-
held a crowd of women and children running away in
the greatest vrepidation, and, looking behind them, saw
lhat one of th % bears had broken his chain T and waf
THE MONKEY. 10T
running after them, growling all the time in a v ry dis-
agreeable manner. Mr. Barlow, who had a good stick
m his hand, and was a man of an intrepid character, per*
ceiving this, bade his pupils remain quiet, and instantly
ran up to the bear, who stopped in the middle of his
career, and seemed inclined to attack Mr. Barlow for
his interference : but this gentleman struck him two or
thiBe blow, rating him at the same time, in a loud and
severe tone of voice, and seizing the end of the chain,
with equal boldness and dexterity, the animal quietly
submitted, and suffered himself to be taken prisoner.
Presently the keeper of the bear came up, into whose
hands Mr. Barlow consigned him, charging him for
the future to be more careful in guarding so danger-
ous a creature.
While this was doing the boys had remained quiet
spectators at a distance, but, by accident, the monkey,
who used to be perched upon the head of the bear, and
was shaken off when the beast broke loose, came run-
ning that way, playing a thousand antic grimaces as he
passed. Tommy, who was determined not to be out-
done by Mr. Barlow, ran very resolutely up, and
seized a string, which was tied round the loins of the
animal : but he, not choosing to be taken prisoner, in-
stantly snapped at Tommy's arm, and almost made his
teeth meet in the fleshy part of it. Yet Tommy, who
was now greatly improved in courage and the use of
his limbs, instead of letting his enemy escape, began
threshing him very severely with the stick which he had
n his hand, till the monkey, seeing he had so resolute
\n antagonist to deal with, desisted from opposition, and
168 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
suffered himself to be led captive like his friend the
bear.
As they were returning home, Tommy asked Mr.
Barlow whether he did not think it very dangerous to
meddle with such an animal when he was loose t
Mr. Barlow told him it was not without danger, but
that it was much less so than most people would
imagine. * Most animals,' said he, ' are easily awed
by the appearance of intrepidity, while they are in-
vited to pursue by marks of fear and apprehension.'
That, I believe, is very true,' answered Harry ; * for I
have very often observed the behaviour of dogs to each
other. When two strange dogs meet, they generally
approach with caution, as if they were mutually afraid :
but as sure as either of them runs away, the other will
pursue him with the greatest insolence and fury.' * This
is not confined to dogs,' replied Mr. Barlow ; ' almost
all wild beasts are subject to receive the sudden impres-
sion of terror ; and therefore men, who have been
obliged to travel without arms, through forests that
abound with dangerous animals, have frequently escaped
unhurt, by shouting aloud whenever they met with any
of them on their way : but what 1 chiefly depended on
was, the education which the bear had received since he
left his own country.' (Tommy laughed heartily at
this idea, and Mr. Barlow went on.) ' Whenever an
animal is taught any thing that is not natural to him,
this is properly receiving an education. Did you ever
observe colts running about wild upon the common ?'
— Tommy. Yes, sir, very often. Mr. Barlow. And
do vou think it would be an easy matter for any one to
TAMING ANIMALS. 180
mount upon their bac«s, or ride them ?— » T. By no
means : I think that they would kick and prance to that
degree, that they would throw any person down. — Mr.
B. And yet your little horse very frequently takes you
upon his back, and carries you very safely between this
nnd your father's house.j— T. That is because he is
used to it. — B. But he was not always used to it ; he
was once a colt, and then he ran about as wild and un-
restrained as any of those upon the common. — T. Yes,
sir. — Mr. B. How came he then to be so altered as te
submit to bear you upon his back I — T. I do not know,
unless it was by feeding him. — Mr. B. That is one
method, but that is not all : they first accustom the colt,
who naturally follows his mother, to come into the
stable with her; then they stroke him and feed him till
he gradually becomes gentle, and will suffer himself to
be handled ; then they take an opportunity of putting a
halter upon his head, and accustom him to stand quietly
in the stable, and to be tied to the manger. Thus they
gradually proceed from one thing to another, till they
teach him to bear the bridle and the saddle, and to be
commanded by his rider. This may very properly be
called the education of an animal, since by these means
he is obliged to acquire habits which he would never
have learned had he been left to himself. Now 1 knew
that the poor bear had been frequently beaten and very
ill used, in order to make him submit to be led about
with a string, and exhibited as a sight. I knew that he
had been accustomed to submit to man, and to >emble
at the sight of the human voice: and I depended upon
the force of these impressions for making him submit
15
170 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
without resistance to the authority T assumed over him.
You saw I was not deceived in my opinion, and by the3«
means I probably prevented the mischief that he might
otherwise have done to some of those women or children.
As Mr. Barlow was talking in this manner, he per
ceived that Tommy's arm w#s bloody ; and inquiring
into the reason, he heard the history of his adventure
with the monkey. Mr. Barlow then looked at the
wound, which he found of no great consequence, and
told Tommy that he was sorry for his accident, anc*
imagined that he was now too courageous to be
daunted by a trifling hurt. Tommy assured him he
was, and proceeded to ask some questions concerning
ihe nature of the monkey, which Mr. Barlow answered
in the following manner : ' The Monkey is a very ex-
traordinary animal, which closely resembles a man in
his shape and appearance, as perhaps you may have
observed. He is always found to inhabit hot countries,
the forests of which, in many parts of the world, are
filled with innumerable bands of these animals. He
is extremely active, and his fore-legs exactly resemble
the arms of a man ; so that he not only uses them to
walk upon, but frequently to climb trees, to hang by
the branches, and to take hold of his food with
He supports himself upon almost every species of
wild fruit which is found in those countries, so that
it is necessary he should be continually scrambling up
and down the highest trees in order to procure himself
a subsistence. Nor is he contented always with the diet
which he finds in the forest where he makes his residence,
Large bands of these creatures will frequently sally oul
MISCHIEF OF MONKEYS, 17 i
to plunder the gardens in the neighbourhood, and many
wonderful stories are told of their ingenuity and con-
trivance.' ■ What are these V said Tommy. — * It is
said ' answered Mr. Barlow, * that they proceed with all
the caution and regularity which could be found in men
themselves Some of these animals are placed as spies
to give notice to the rest, in case any human being
should approach the garden ; and, should that happen,
one of the centinels informs them by a peculiar chatter-
ing, and they all escape in an instant.' ' I can easily
believe that,' answered Harry, « for I have observed,
that when a flock of rooks alight upon a farmer's field
of corn, two or three of them always take their station
u.pon the highest tree they can find : and if any one ap-
proaches, they instantly give notice by their cawing,
and all the rest take wing directly, and fly away.' —
1 But,' answered Mr. Barlow, ' the monkeys are said to
be yet more ingenious in their thefts : for they station
some of their body at a small distance from each other,
in a line that reaches quite from the forest they inhabit,
to the particular garden they wish to plunder. When
this is done, several of them mount the fairest fruit trees,
and, picking the fruit, throw it down to their compa-
nions who stand below ; these again cast it to others at
a little distance ; and thus it flies from hand to hand till
it is safely deposited in the woods or mountains whence
they came. When they are taken very young they are
easily tamed, but always retain a great disposition to
mischief, as well as to imitate every 3hing they see done
by men Many ridiculous stories are told of them in
his respect. I have heard of a monkey that resided id
I 72 SANDFORD AND MERTO?
a gentleman's family, and that frequently observed hia
master undergo the operation of shaving. The imitativ*
animal one day took it into his head to turn barber, and,
seizing in one hand a cat that lived in the same house,
and a bottle of ink in the other, he carried her up to the
top of a very fine marble staircase. The servants were
all attracted by the screams of the cat, who did not
relish the operation that was going forward ; and, run-
ning out, were equally surprised and diverted to see the
monkey gravely seated upon the landing-place of the
stairs, and holding the cat fast in one of his paws ; while
with the other he continually applied ink to puss's face,
rubbing it all over, just as he had observed the barber
do to his master. Whenever the cat struggled to escape,
the monkey gave her a pat with his paw, chattering all
the time, and making the most ridiculous grimaces ; and
when she was quiet, he applied himself to his bottle, and
continued the operation. But I have heard a more
tragic story of the imitative genius of these animals.
One of them lived in a fortified town, and used frequently
to run up and down upon the ramparts, where he had
observed the gunner discharge the great guns that de-
fended the town. One day he got possession of the
lighted match with which the man used to perform his
business, and, applying it to the touch-hole of a gun, he
ran to the mouth of it to see the explosion : but the can-
non which happend to be loaded, instantly went off, and
»lew the poor monkey into a thousand pieces.'
When they came back to Mr. Barlow's, they found
master Merlon's servant and horses waiting to bring
rum home. When he arrived there, he was received
GRATITUDE. lib
with the greatest joy and tenderness by his parents ; biT
though he gave them an account of every thing else
that had happened, he did not say a word about the
money he had given to the farmer. But the next day
being Sunday, Mr. and Mrs. Merton and Tommy went
together to the parish-church ; which they had scared}
entered, when a general whisper ran through the whole
congregation, and all eyes were in an instant turned
upon the little boy. Mr. and Mrs. Merton were very much
astonished at this, but they forbore to inquire until the
end of the service ; then as they were going out of the
church together, Mr. Merton asked his son what could
be the reason of the general attention which he excited
at his entrance into church? Tommy had no time tc
answer, for at that instant a very decent-looking woman
ran up, and threw herself at his feet, calling him her
guardian angel and preserver, and praying that Heaven
would shower down upon his head all the blessings
which he deserved. It was some time before Mr. and
Mrs. Merton could understand the nature of this extra-
ordinary scene ; but, when they at length understood
the secret of their son's generosity, they seemed to be
scarcely less affected than the woman herself, and shed-
ding tears of transport and affection, they embraced
their son, without attending to the crowd that surroundeo
them : but immediately recollecting themselves, thev
look their leave of the poor woman, and hurried to theii
cuach with such sensations as it is more easy to con
reive than to describe.
The summer had now completely passed away while
Tommy was receiving these improvements at the houff
15*
174 SANDFORD AND MERTON
of Mr. Barlow. In the course of this time, both his
body and mind had acquired additional vigour ; for he
was neither so fretful and humoursome, nor so easily
affected by the vicissitudes of the season. And now the
winter had set in with unusual severity : the water was
all frozen into a solid mass of ice : the earth was bare
of food, and the little birds, that used to hop about and
chirp with gladness, seemed to lament in silence the in-
clemency of the weather.
Tommy was one day surprised, when he entered his
chamber, to find a very pretty little bird flying about it
He went down stairs and informed Mr. Barlow, who,
after he had seen the bird, told him it was called a Robin
Red-breast; and that it was naturally more tame and
disposed to cultivate the society of men than any other
species : « but at present,' added he, ' the little fellow is
in want of food, because the earth is too hard to furnish
him any assistance, and hunger inspires him with this
unusual boldness.' — < Why then, sir,' said Tommy, ' if
you will give me leave, I will fetch a piece of bread
and feed him.' — < Do so,' answered Mr. Barlow ; « but
4 frst set the window open, that he may see you do not
intend to take him prisoner.' Tommy accordingly
opened his window ; and scattering a few crumbs of
bread about the room, had the satisfaction of seeing his
guest hop down, and make a very hearty meal : he then
flew out of the room, and settled upon a neighbouring
tree, singing all the time, as if to return thanks for the
hospitality he had met with.
Tommy was greatly delighted with his new acquain-
ance ; and from this time never foiled to net his window
THE ROBIN. 1/3
open every morning, and scatter some crumbs about the
room ; which the bird perceiving, nopped tearless in,
and regaled himself under the protection of his bene-
factor. By degrees, the intimacy increased so much
that little Robin would alight on Tommy's shoulder, and
whistle his notes in that situation, or eat out of his hand
all which gave Tommy so much satisfaction, that he
would frequently call Mr. Barlow and Harry to be wit-
ness of his favorite's caresses ; nor did he ever eat hie
own meals without reserving a part for his little friend.
It however happened, that one day Tommy went up
stairs after dinner, intending to feed his bird as usual ;
but as soon as he opened the door of his chamber he
discovered a sight that pierced him to the very heart.
His little friend and innocent companion lay dead upon
the floor, and torn in pieces ; and a large cat taking that
opportunity to escape, soon directed his suspicions to-
wards the murderer. Tommy instantly ran down with
tears in his eyes, to relate the unfortunate death of his
favourite to Mr. Barlow, and to demand vengeance
against the wicked cat that had occasioned it. Mr. Bar-
low heard him with great compassion, but asked what
pumshmeut he washed to inflict upon the cat ?
Tommy. Oh ! sir, nothing can be too bad for that
cruel animal. I would have her killed, as she killed
♦he poor bird.
Mr. Barlow. But do you imagine that she did it out
of any particular malice to your bird, or merely because
she was hungry, and accustomed to catch her prey in
tnai manner''
Tommy considered some time, but at last he owned
176 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
that he did not suspect the cat of having any paiticula*
spite against his bird, and therefore he supposed she had
been impelled by hunger.
Mr. Barlow. Have you never observed, that it was
the property of that species to prey upon mice and other
little animals?
Tommy. Yes, sir, very often.
Mr. Barlow. And have you ever corrected her for so
doing, or attemped to teach her other habits ?
Tommy. I cannot say I have. Indeed I have seen
little Harry, when she had caught a mouse and was
tormenting it, take it from her, and give it liberty. But
I have never meddled with her myself.
Mr. Barlow. Are you not then more to be blamed
than the cat herself? You have observed that it was
common to the whole species to destroy mice and little
birds, whenever they could surprise them ; yet you have
iken no pains to secure your favourite from the danger ;
on the contrary ; by rendering him tame, and accus-
toming him to be fed, you have exposed him to a violent
death, which he would probably have avoided had he re-
mained wild. Would it not then be just and more reason-
able to endeavour to teach the cat that she must no lon-
ger prey upon little birds, than to put her to death for
what you have never taught her was an offence.
Tommy. But is that possible ?
Mr. Bar. Very possible, I should imagine: but we
may at least try the experiment.
Tommy. But why should such a mischievous crea
*ure live at all ?
Mi . Barlow. Because if you destroyed every cre«
ANIMALS OF PREY. 177
tore that preys upon others, you would perhaps leava
few alive.
Tommy. Si.reiy, sir, the poor bird which that naugh*
cat has killed, was never guilty of such a cruelty.
Mr. Barloiv I will not answer for that. Let us ob«
serve what they live upon in the fields ; we shall then be
able 1 o give a better account.
Mr. Barlow then went to the window, and desired
Tommy to come to him, and observe a Robin which was
then hopping upon the grass with something in its mouth
and asked him what he thought it was.
Tommy. I protest, sir, it is a large worm. And now
he has swallowed it ! I should never have thought tha'
such a pretty bird could have been so cruel.
Mr. Barlow. Do you imagine that the bird is con-
scious of all that is suffered by the insect?
Tommy. No, sir.
Mr. Barlow. In him then it is not the same cruelty
it would be which in you, who are endowed with reason
and reflection. Nature has given him a propensity for
animal food, which he obeys in the same manner as the
Bheep and ox when they feed upon grass, or as the ass
when he browses upon the furze or thistles.
T. Why, then, perhaps, the cat did not know the
cruelty she was guilty of in tearing that poor bird to
pieces ?
Mr. Barlow. No more than the bird we have just
seen is conscious of his cruelty to the insect. The
natural food of cats consist in rats, mice, birds, and
such small animals as they can seize by violence, or
catch by craft. It was impossible she should ivnow th#
178 SANDPORD AND MERTON.
value you set upon your bird, and therefore she had n<
more intention of offending you, than had she caught a
mouse.
T. But if that is the case, should I have another
tame bird, she would kill it as she has done this poor
fellow.
Mr. Barlow. That, perhaps, may be prevented. ]
have heard people that deal in birds affirm, there is a
way of preventing cats from meddling with them.
T. Oh ! dear sir, I should like to try it. Will you
not shew me how to prevent the cat from killing any
more birds 1
Mr. Barlow. Most willingly. — it is certainly better
to correct the faults of an animal, than to destroy it.
Besides I have a particular affection for this cat, because
L found her when she was a kitten, and have bred her
up so tame and gentle, that she will follow me about like
a dog. She comes every morning to my chamber door,
and mews till she is let in ; and she sits upon the table
at breakfast and dinner, as grave and polite as a visitor,
without offering to touch the meat. Indeed, before she
was guilty of this offence, I have often seen you stroke
and caress her with great affection ; and puss, who is
by no means of an ungrateful temper, would always
pur and arch her tail, as if she was sensible of your
attention.
In a few days after this contersation, another robm,
suffering like the former from the inclemency of the
season, flew into the house, and commenced acquaint-
ance with Tommy. But he, who had recollected the
mournful fate of his former bird, would not encourage
ANIMALS OF PREY. \ ft
I to if ./ familiarity, till he had claimed the promise of
\fr. Barlow, in order to preserve it from danger. Mr.
Barlow, therefore, enticed the new guest into a small
wire cage, and, as soon as he had entered it, shut the
door, in order to prevent his escaping. He then took a
small gridiron, such as is used to broil meat upon, and,
having almost heated it red hot, placed it erect upon the
ground, before the cage in which the bird was confined.
He then contrived to entice the cat into the room, and
observing that she fixed her eye upon the bird, which
she destined to become her prey, he withdrew the two
Httle boys, in order to leave her unrestrained in her
operations. They did not retire far, but observed her
from the door fix her eyes upon the cage, and begin to
approach it in silence, bending her body to the ground,
and almost touching it as she crawled along. When
she judged herself within a proper distance, she exerted
all her agility in a violent spring, which would probably
have been fatal to the bird, had not the gridiron, placed
before the cage, received the impression of her attack.
Nor was this disappointment the only punishment
she was destined to undergo : the bars of the machine
had been so thoroughly heated, that in rushing against
them she felt herself burned in several parts of her
body ; and retired from the field of battle, mewing
dreadfully, and full of pain : and such was the impres-
sion which this adventure produced, that from this time
she was never again known to attempt to destroy bird?
The coldness of the weather still continuing, all the
wild animals began to perceive the effects, and com-
oelled by hunger approached nearer to the habitations
180 8ANDFORD AND MERTON.
of man, and the places they had been accustomed ta
avoid. A multitude of hares, the most timorous of all
animals / were frequently seen scudding about the gar.
den in search of the scanty vegetables which the sever-
ity of the season had spared. In a short time they had
devoured all the green herbs which could be found, and,
hunger still oppressing them, they began to gnaw the
very bark of the trees for food. One day, as Tommy
was walking in the garden, he found even that beloved
tree which he nad planted with his own hands, and from
which he had promised himself so plentiful a produce
of fruit, had not escaped the general depredation, but
had been gnawed round at the root and killed
Tommy, who could ill brook disappointment, was so
enraged to see his labours prove abortive, that he ran
with tears in his eyes to Mr. Barlow, to demand ven-
geance against the devouring hares.—' Indeed,' said Mr.
Barlow, ' I am sorry for what they have done, but it is
now too late to prevent it'. — 'Yes,' answered Tommy,
' but you may have all those mischievous creatures shot,
that they may do no farther damage.' « A little while
ago,' replied Mr. Barlow, * you wanted to destroy the
cat, because she was cruel, and preyed upon living
animals ; and now you would murder all the hares,
merely because they are innocent, inoffensive animals,
that subsist upon vegetables.' Tommy looked a little
foolish, but said, ' he did not want to hurt them for living
upon vegetables, but for destroying nis tree.' — ' But,'
9aid Mr. Barlow, < how can ycu expect the animal to
distinguish your trees from any other? You should,
herftl^re have fenced them round, in such a manner as
CLIMATE. i°1
might have prevented the hares from reaching them.
Besides, in such extreme distress as animals now suffer
from the want of food, I think they may be forgiven if
they trespass a little more than usual.'
Mr. Barlow then took Tommy by the hand, and .ed
him into a field at some distance, which belonged to him
and which was sown with turnips. Scarcely had they
entered the field, before a flock of larks rose up in such
innumerable quantities, as almost darkened the air.
4 See,' said Mr. Barlow, ■ these little fellows are trespass-
ing upon my turnips in such numbers, that in a short
time they will destroy every bit of green about the field :
yet I would not hurt them on any account. Look round
the whole extent of country, you will see nothing but a
barren waste, which presents no food either to bird or
beast. These little creatures, therefore, assemble in mul
titudes here, where they find a scanty subsistence, and
though they may do me some mischief, they arc welcome
to what they can find. In the spring they will enliven
oui walks by their agreeable songs.
T. How dreary and uncomfortable is this season of
winter ; I wish it were always summer.
Mr. B In some countries it is so ; but there the
inhabitants complain more of the intolerable heat than
you do of the cold. They would with pleasure be
relieved by the agreeable variety of cooler weather,
when they are panting under the violence of a scorching
mn.
T. Then I should like to live in a country that was
never either disagreeably hot or cold.
Mr B. Such a country is scarcely to be found » 01
16
\%2 SANDFORD AND MERTOIf.
if it is, contains so small a portion of the earth, as to
leave room for very few inhabitants.
T, Then I should think it would be so crowded, that
one would hardiy be able to stir, for every body would
naturally wish to live there.
Mr. B. There you are mistaken, for the inhabitants
jf the finest climates are often less attached to their own
country than those of the worst. Custom reconciles
people to every kind of life, and makes them equally
satisfied with the place in which they are born. There
is a country called Lapland, which extends a great deal
further north than any part of England, which is
covered with perpetual snows during all the year : yet
the inhabitants would not exchange it for any other por-
tion of the globe.
T. How do they live in so disagreeable a country ?
Mr. B. If you ask Harry he will tell you. Being a
farmer, it is his business to study the different methods
by which men find subsistence in all the different part^
of the earth.
T. I should like very much to hear ; if Harry wil;
be so good as to tell me.
H. You must kn ;w then, master Tommy, that, in the
greatest part of thi* country, which is called Lapland,
the inhabitants neither sow nor reap; they are totally
unacquainted with the use of corn, and know not how to
make bread : they have no trees which bear fruit, and
scarcely any of the herbs which grow in our gardens n
England ; nor do they possess either sheep, goats hogs,
cows, or beasts.
THE LAPLANDERS. 189
l. That must be a disagreeable country indeed !
Vv hat then have they to live upon ?
H. They have a species of deer, which is biggei
t.ian the largest stags which you may have seen in the
gentlemen's parks in England, and very strong. r I\nese
animals are called rein-deer, and are of so gentle a
nature, that they are easily tamed, and taught to live
together in herds, and to obey their masters. In the
short summer which they enjoy, the Laplanders lead
them out to pasture in the valleys, where the grass
grows very high and luxuriant. In the winter, when
the ground is all covered over with snow, the deer have
learned to scratch away the snow, and find a sort of
moss which grows underneath it, and upon this they
subsist. These creatures afford not only food, but rai-
ment, and even houses to their masters. In the sum-
mer the Laplander milks his herds, and lives upon the
produce : sometimes he lays by the milk in wooden
vessels, to serve him for food in winter. This is soon
frozen so hard, that when they would use it, they are
obliged to cut it to pieces with a hatchet. Sometimes
the winters are so severe, that the poor deer can
scarcely find even moss : and then the master is obliged
to kill part of them, and live upon the flesh. Of the
skins he makes warm garments for himself and his
family, and strews them thick upon the ground to sleep
upon. Their houses are only poles stuck slanting intc
the ground, and almost joined at the top, except a little
hole which thev lea v e to let out the smoke. These
poles are either covered with the skins of animals, 01
coarse cloth, or sometimes with turf one side, through
1 84 SANDFORL AJND MERTON.
which the family creep into their tent, and they "lake a
comfortable fire to warm them in the middle. People
that are so easily contented, are totally ignorant of mos
of the things that are thought so necessary here. Th«s
Laplanders have neither gold, nor silver, nor carpets,
nor carved work in their houses : every man makes for
himself all that the real wants of life require, and with
his own hands performs every thing which is necessary
to be done. Their food consists either in frozen milk,
or the flesh of the rein-deer, or that of the bear, which
they frequently hunt and kill. Instead of bread, they
strip off the bark of firs, which are almost the only trees
that grow upon those dismal mountains : and, boiling
the inward and more tender skin, they eat it with their
flesh. The greatest happiness of these poor people is to
live free and unrestrained ; therefore they do not long
remain fixed to any spot, but, taking down their houses,
they pack them up along with the little furniture they
possess, and load them upon sledges, to carry and set
them up in some other place.
T. Have you not said that they have neither horses
nor oxen ? Do thev then draw these sledges them
selves 1
H. 1 thought I should surprize you, master Tommy.
The rein-deer which 1 have described are so tractable,
that they are harnessed like horses, and draw the
sledges with their masters upon them near thirty miles
a day. They set out with surprising swiftness, and run
along the snow, which is frozen so hard in winter, thai
it supports them like a solid road. In this manner d<
the Laplanders perform their journeys, and change then
THE LAPLANDERS. 1M
places of abode as often as is agreeable. In the Spring
they lead their herds of deer to pasture upon the moun-
tains: in the winter they come down into the plains,
where they are better protected against the fury of the
winds. For the whole country is waste and desolate,
destitute of all the objects which you see here. There
are no towns, nor villages; no fields inclosed or culti-
vated ; no beaten roads ; no inns for travellers to sleep
at ; no shops to purchase the necessaries or conveni-
ences of life at ; the face of the whole country is barren
and dismal ; wherever you turn your eyes, nothing is to
be seen but lofty mountains, white with snow, and
covered with ice and fogs; scarcely any trees are to be
seen, except a few stunted fir and birch. These moun-
tains afford a retreat to thousands of bears and wolves,
which are continually pouring down and prowling about
to prey upon the herds of deer ; so that the Laplanders
are continually obliged to fight them in their own defence.
To do this, they fix large pieces of flat board, about
four or five feet long, to the bottom of their feet ; and
thus secured, they run along, without sinking into the
snow, so nimbly, that they can overtake the wild animals
.n the chase. The bear they kill with bows and ar-
rows which they make themselves. Sometimes they
find out the dens where they have laid themselves up in
winter : and then they attack them with spears, and
generally overcome them. When a Laplander has
killed a bear, he carries it home in triumph, boils the
flesh in an iron pot, (which is all the cooking they are
acquainted with), and invites all his neighbours to the
feast.
1 86 SANDF0RD AND MERTON.
This they account the greatest delicacy in the world
and particularly the fat, which they melt over the fire
and drink : then, sitting round the flame, they entertain
each other with stories of their own exploits in hunting
or fishing, till the feast is over. Though they live so
barbarous a life, they are a good-natured, sincere, and
hospitable people. If a stranger comes among them,
they lodge and entertain him in the best manner they
are able, and generally refuse all payment for their ser-
vices, unless it be a little bit of tobacco, which they are
immoderately fond of smoking
T. Poor people ! how I pity them to live such an
unhappy life ! I should think the fatigues and hardships
they undergo must kill them in a very short space of
time.
Mr, B. Have you then observed that those who eat
and drink the most, and undergo the least fatigue, are
the most free from disease?
T. Not always ; for I remember, that there are
two of these gentlemen who come to dine at my
father's, who eat an amazing quantity of meat, besides
drinking a great deal of wine : and these poor gentlemen
lost the use of almost all their limbs. Their legs are so
swelled, that they are almost as big as their bodies ; their
feet are so tender, that they cannot set them to the
ground, and their knees so stiff, that they cannot bend
them. When they arrive they are obliged to be helped
out of their coaches bv two or three people, and they
come hobbling in upon crutches. But I never heard
them talk about any thing but eating and drinking in all
my life.
0OOD LIVING. 187
Mr B. And did you ever observe that any of the
Door had lost the use of their limbs by the same dis-
ease 1
T. I cannot say I have.
Mr. B. Then, perhaps, the being confined to a
scanty diet, to hardship, and to excercise, may not be
so desperate as you imagine. This way of life is even
much less so than- the intemperance in which too many
of the rich continually indulge themselves. I remember
lately reading a story on this subject, which if you
please, you shall hear. Mr. Barlow then read the fol-
lowing
History of a surprising cure of the Gout.
In one of the provinces of Italy there lived a wealthy
gentleman, who having no taste either for improving
his mind, or exercising his body, acquired a habit of
eating almost all day long. The whole extent of his
thoughts was what he should eat for dinner, and how he
should procure the greatest delicacies. Italy produces
excellent wine, but these were not enough for our epi-
cure : he settled agents in different parts of France and
Spain, to buy up all the most generous and costly wines
of those countries. He had correspondence with all the
maritime cities, that he might be constantly supplied
with every species of fish : eveiy poulterer and fish-
monger in the town was under articles to let him have
his choice of rarities. He also employed a man on pur
pots to give directions for his pastry and deserts. Ai
188 SANDFORD A'XD MEKTON.
soon as he lad breakfasted in the morning, it was e
constant practice to retire to his library ; (for he too had
a library, although he never opened a book). When he
was there he gravely seated himself in an easy chair,
and, tucking a napkin under his chin, ordered his head
cook to be sent into him. The head cook instantly ap-
peared attended by a couple of footmen, who carried
each a silver salver of prodigious size, on which were
cups, containing sauces of every different flavour which
^ould be devised. The gentleman, with the greatest
solemnity, used to dip a bit of bread in each, and taste
it, giving his orders upon the subject with as much
earnestness and precision, as if he had been signing
papers for the goverment of a kingdom. When this im-
portant affair was concluded, he would throw himself
upon a couch, to repair the fatigues of such an exertion,
and refresh himself against dinner. When that delight-
ful hour arrived, it is impossible to describe either the
variety of fish, flesh, and fowl, which was set before
him, or the surprising greediness with which he ate of
all ; stimulating his appetite wtth the highest sauces and
richest wines, till at length he was obliged to desist, not
from being satisfied, but from mere inability to contain
more.
This kind of life he had long pursued, but at last be
came so corpulent, that he could hardly move : his bell)
appeared prominent like a mountain, his face was
bloated, and his legs, though swelled to the size of
columns, seemed unable to support the prodigious weight
of his body. Added to this, he was troubled with
INDULGENCE. 189
continual indigestions, and racking pains in several of
hi3 limbs, which at length terminated in a violent fit
of the gout. The pains, indeed, at length abated, and
this unfortunate epicure returned to all his former habits
of intemperance. The interval of ease, however, was
snort, and the attacks of his disease becoming more and
more frequent, he was at length deprived of the use of
almost all his limbs
In this unhappy state he determined to consult a
physician that lived in the same town, and had the re-
putation of performing many surprising cures. ' Doctor,'
said the gentleman to the physician, when he arrived,
1 you see the miserable state to which I am reduced.' —
I do, indeed,' answered the physician, ' and I suppose
you have contributed to it by your intemperance.' — 'Aa
to intemperance,' replied the gentleman, 'I believe few
have less to answer for than myself: I indeed love a
moderate dinner and supper, but I never was intoxicated
with liquor in my life.' — ' Probably then you sleep toe
much V said the physician. — 'As to sleep,' said the gen-
tleman, ' 1 am in bed near twelve hours every night,
because I find the sharpness of the morning air ex-
tremely injurious to my constitution : but I am sc
troubled with a plaguy flatulency and heart-burn, that I
irfl scarcely able to close my eyes all night : or if I do,
I find myself almost strangled with wind, and wake in
agonies,' — 'That is a very alarming symptom, indeed.'
replied the doctor,' I wonder so many restless nights dc
not entirely wear you out.' — ' They would, indeed,
answered the gentleman, ' if I did not make shift to pro-
cure a little sleep two or three times a day, wnich
190 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
enables me tc hold out a Utile longer.' — l As to excrcisf
zontinued the doctor, * I fear you are not able to use a
great deal.' — ' Alas !' answered the sick man, * while I
was able, I never failed to go out in my carriage oner
or twice a week, but in my present situation, I can nc
longer bear the gentlest motion : besides disordering my
whole frame, it gives me such intolerable twitches in
my limbs, that you would imagine I was absolutely
falling to pieces.' — 'Your case,' answered the physician,
1 is indeed bad, but not quite desperate, and if you could
abridge the quantity of your food and sleep, you would
in a short time find yourself much better.' — ' Alas !'
answered the sick man, ' I find you little know the
delicacy of my constitution, or you would not put me
upon a method which will infallibly destroy me. When
I rise in the morning, I feel as if all the powers of life
were extinguished within me ; my stomach is oppressed
with nausea, my head with aches and swimming, and
above all, I feel such an intolerable sinking in my spirits,
that without the assistance of two or three cordials, and
some restorative soup, I am confident I never could get
through the morning. Now, Doctor, I have such con-
fidence in your skill, that there is no pill or potion you
can order me, which I will not take with pleasure, but
as to a change in my diet, that is impossible.' — ' That
is,' answered the physician, ' you wish for health with-
out being at the trouble of acquiring it, and imagine,
that all the consequences of an ill-spent life are to be
washed away by a julep, or a decoction of senna. But,
as I cannot cure you upon those terms, I will lot de-
ceive you for an nstant. Your case is out of Uh
THE DOCTOR. 191
uow*r of medicine, and you can only be relieved by
your own exertions. — ( How hard is this,' answered the
gentleman, ' to be thus abandoned to despair even in the
prime of life ! Cruel and unfeeling Doctor, will you
not attempt any thing to procure me ease ?'-^-' Sir,'
answered the physician, 'I have already told you every
thing I know upon the subject • I must, however
acquaint you, that I have a brother physician, who
'ives at Padua; a man of the greatest learning and in-
tegrity, who is particularly famous for curing the gout.
If you think it worth your while to consult him, 1 will
give ~ou a letter of recommendation, for he never stirs
from home, even to attend a prince.'
Here the conversation ended : for the gentleman, who
did not like the trouble of the journey, took his leave of
the physician, and returned home, very much dispirited.
In a little while he either was, or fancied himself worse ;
and as the idea of the Paduan physician had never left
his head, he at last resolutely determined to set out
upon the journey. For this purpose he had a litter so con-
trived, that he could lie recumbent, or recline at his
ease, and eat his meals. The distance was not above
one day's tolerable journey, but the gentleman wisely
resolved to make four of it, for fear of over-fatiguing
himself. He had, besides, a loaded wagon attending,
filled with every thing that constitutes good eating ; and
two of his cooks went with him, that nothing might be
wanting to his accommodation on the road.
After a wearisome journey, he at length arrived within
sight of Padua ; and, eagerly inquiring after the house
of Doctor Ramozini, vi as soon directed to the spot : then.
192 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
having been helped out of his carriage by half a Jozea
of his servants, he was shown into a neat but plain
parlour, from which he had the prospect of twenty or
thirty people at dinner in a spacious hall. In the middle
of them was the learned doctor himself, who with much
complaisance invited the company to eat heartily.—
' My good friend,' said the doctor, to a pale-looking
man on his right hand, ' you must eat three slices more
of this roast beef, or you will never lose your ague.' —
4 My friend,' said he to another, ' drink off this glass
of porter ; it is just arrived from England, and is a spe-
cific for nervous fevers.' — * Do not stuff your child so
with maccaroni,' added he, turning to a woman, ' if you
would wish to cure him of the scrofula.' — * Good man,'
said he to a fourth, * how goes on the ulcer in your leg?'
— ' Much better, indeed,' replied the man, ' since I have
lived at your honour's table.' — ' Weil,' replied the phy-
sician, ' in a fortnight you will be perfectly cured, if you
do but drink wine enough.'
* Thank heaven,' said the gentleman, who had heard
all this with infinite pleasure, ' I have at last met with
a reasonable physician; he will not confine me to
jread and water, nor starve me under pretence of curing
me, like that confounded quack from whose clutches 1
have so luckily escaped.'
/Vt length the doctor dismissed his company, who re
tired, loading him with thanks and blessings. He then
approached the gentleman, and welcomed him with the
greatest politeness ; who presented him with his letters
of recommendation ; which, after the physician had
perused, he thus accosted him ; — * Sir, the letter of mj
THE PHYSICIAN. 193
eirped friend has fully instructed me in the particulars
of your case ; it is indeed a difficult one, but I think
yoa have no reason to despair of a perfect recovery.
If,' added he, * you choose to put yourself under my
care, I will employ all the secrets of my art for your
assistance : but one condition is absolutely indispensa
ble ; you must send away all your servants, and
solemnly engage to follow my prescriptions for at least
a month ; without this compliance I would not under-
take the cure even of a monarch-' * Doctor,' answered
the gentleman, ' what I have seen of your profession,
does not, I confess, much prejudice me in their favour ;
and I should hesitate to agree to such a proposal from
any other individual.' — ' Do as you like, sir,' answered
the physician ; * the employing me or not, is entirely
voluntary on your part : but as I am above the com-
mon mercenary views of gain, I never stake the reputa-
tion of so noble an art without a rational prospect of
success : and what success can I hope for in so obstinate
a disorder, unless the patient will consent to a fair ex-
periment of what I can effect V- — * Indeed,' replied the
gentleman, « what you say is so candid, and your
whole behaviour so much interests me in your favour,
that I will immediately give you proofs of the most un-
bounded confidence.'
He then sent for his servants, and ordered them to
leturn home, and not to come near him till a whole
month was elapsed. When they were gone, the phy-
sician asked him how he supported the journey ?— * Why
really,' answered he, * much better than I could have
•umected. But I feel myself unusually hungry ; and
17
194 SANDF0RD AND MERTOH.
therefore, with your permission, shall beg to Have the
hour of supper a little hastened.' — ' Most willingly,' an-
swered the Doctor ; * at eight o'clock every thing shall
be ready for your entertainment. In the meantime ycu
will permit me to visit my patients.'
While the physician was absent, the gentleman was
pleasing his imagination with the thoughts of the excel-
lent supper he should make. — ' Doubtless,' said he to
himself, c if Signor Ramonizi treats the poor in such an
hospitable manner, he will spare nothing for the enter-
tainment of a man of my importance. I have heard
there are delicious trouts and ortolans in this part of
Italy : I make no doubt but the Doctor keeps an excel-
lent cook ; and I shall have no reason to repent the dis-
mission of my servants.'
With these ideas he kept himself some time amused ;
at length, his appetite growing keener and keener every
instant, from fasting longer than ordinary, he lost all
patience, and, calling one of the servants of the house,
inquired for some little nice thing to stay his stomach
till the hour of supper. — * Sir,' said the servant, * I
would gladly oblige you ; but it is as much as my place
is worth : my master is the best and most generous of
men ; but so great is his attention to his house patients,
that he will not suffer one of them to eat, unless in his
presence. However, sir, have patience ; in two hours
more, the supper will be ready, and then you may in
demnify yourself for all.'
Thus was the gentleman compelled to pass two hours
more without food : a degree of abstinence he had not
practised for almost tweaty years. He nnmplameri
THE SFrPER. 195
bitterly of tho slowness of time, and was continually in-
quiring what was the hour.
At length the doctor returned punctual to his time ;
and ordered the supper to be brought in. Accordingly
six dishes were set upon the table with great solemnity;
all under cover ; and the gentleman flattered himself he
should now be rewarded for his long abstinence. As they
were sitting down to table, the learned Ramozini thus
accosted his guest : * Before you give a loose to your
appetite, sir, I must acquaint you, that "as the most
effectual method of subduing this obstinate disease, all
your food and drink will be mixed up with such medical
substances as your case requires. They will not be in-
deed discoverable by any of your senses : but as their
effects are equally strong and certain, I must recommenc
to you to eat with moderation. '
Having said this, he ordered the dishes to be ur
covered, which to the extreme astonishment of the gen
tleman, contained nothing but olives, dried figs, dates,
some roasted apples, a few boiled eggs, and a piece of
hard cheese!
4 Heaven and earth !' cried the gentleman, losing all
patience at this mortifying spectacle, * is this the enter-
tainment you have prepared for me, with so many
speeches and prefaces ? Do you imagine that a person
of my fortune can sup on such contemptible fare as
would hardly satisfy the wretched peasants whom I saw
at dinner in your hall V — * Have patience, my dear sir
replied the physician : ' it is the extreme anxiety I have
for your welfare, that compels me to treat, you with this
ipparent incivility. Your blood is all in a ferment with
.WtJ SANDFORD AND MERTOW.
the violent exercise you have undergone ; and, were
rashly to indulge your craving appetite, a fever or a
pleurisy might be the consequence. But to-morrow (
hope you will be cooler ; and then you may live in a
style more adapted to your quality.'
The gentleman began to comfort himself with this
reflection, and, as there was no help, he at last deter
mined to wait with patience another night. He accord-
ingly tasted a few of the dates and olives, ate a piece of
cheese with a slice of excellent bread, and found him-
self more refreshed than he could have imagined was
possible, from such a homely meal. When he had
nearly supped, he wanted something to drink, and ob-
serving nothing but water upon the table, desired one of
the servants to bring him a little wine. — ' Not as you
value the life of this illustrious gentleman,' cried out the
physician. — ' Sir,' added he, turning to his guest, ' it is
with inexpressible reluctance that I contradict you ;
but wine would be at present a moral poison ; there-
fore, please to content yourself, for one night only,
with a glass of this most excellent and refreshing mi-
neral water.'
The gentleman was again compelled to submit, and
drank the water with a variety of strange grimaces.
After the cloth was removed, Signor Ramozini enter-
iained the gentleman with some agreeable and improving
.-or.fensation, for about an hour, and then proposed to
bis patient that he should retire to rest. This proposal
trie gentleman gladly accepted, as he found himself fa
tigued witn his journey and unusually disposed to sleep
THE BED. ¥1
Thfc jroctoi then retired, and ordered one of his servants
to show tl e gentleman to his chamber.
He was accordingly conducted into a neighbouring
room, where there was little to be seen but a homely
bed, without furniture, with nothing to sleep upon but a
mattress almost as hard as the floor. At this the gentle-
man burst into a violent passion again : ' Villain V said
he to the servant, ' it is impossible your master should
dare to confine me to such a wretched dog-hole ! shew
me into another room immediately !' — « Sir,' answered
the servant, with profound humility, < I am heartily
sorry the chamber does not please you, but I am morally
certain I have not mistaken my master's order : and I
have too great a respect for you to think of disobeying
him in a point which concerns your precious life.'
Saying this, he went out of the room, and shutting the
door on the outside, left the gentleman to his meditations.
They were not very agreeable at first ; however, as he
saw no remedy, he undressed himself, and entered the
wretched bed, where he presently fell asleep, while he
was meditating revenge upon the doctor and his whoie
family.
The gentleman slept so soundly, that he he did noi
awake till morning ; and then the physician came into
his room, and with the greatest tenderness and civilit \
inquiring after his health. He had indeed fallen asleep
in very ill humour ; but his night's rest had much com
posed his mind, and the effect of this was increased by
the extreme politeness of the doctor : so that ne an
swered with tolerable temper, only making bitter com
plaints of the home iness of his accomodation.
17*
£98 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
* My dearest sir,' answered the physician, ' did I nol
make a previous agreement with you that you sheula
submit to my management ? Can you imagine that I
have any other end in view than the improvement of
your health? It is not possible that you should in every
thing perceive the reasons of my conduct, which is
founded upon the most accurate theory and experience.
However, in this case, I must inform you, that 1 have
found out the art of making my very beds medicinal ;
and this you must confess, from the excellent night you
have passed. I cannot impart the same salutary vir-
tues to down or silk, and therefore, though very much
against my inclinations, I have been compelled to lodge
you in this homely manner. But now, if you please, it
is time to rise.'
Ramozini then rang for his servants, and the gentle-
man suffered himself to be dressed. At breakfast the
gentleman expected to fare a little better, but his relent-
less guardian would suffer him to taste nothing but a
slice of bread and a porringer of water-gruel : all of
which he defended, very little to his guest's satisfaction,
upon the most unerring principles of medical science.
After breakfast had been some time finished, Doctor
Ramozini told his patient it was time to begin the great
work of restoring him to the use of his limbs. He ac-
cordingly had him carried into a little room, where he
desired the gentleman to attempt tc stand. ' That m
impossible,' answered the patient, ' for I have not beet'
able to use a leg these three years.' — 'Prop yourself
then, upon your crutches, and lean against the wall to
support vourself,' answered the physician. The geft
FIERY ORDEAL 199
tieman did so, and the doctor went abruptly out. and
locked the door after him. He had not been long in
this situation before he felt the floor of the chamber
which he had not before perceived to be composed of
plates of iron, grow immoderately hot under his feet.
He called the doctor and his servants, but to no purpose :
he then began to utter loud vociferations and menaces,
but all was equally ineffectual ; he raved, he swore, he
promised, he entreated, but nobody came to his assist-
ance, and the heat grew more intense every instant.
At length necessity compelled him to hop upon one leg,
in order to rest the other, and this he did with greater
agility than he could conceive was possible : presently
the other leg began to burn, and then he hopped again
upon the other. Thus he went on hopping about with
this involuntary exercise, till he had stretched every
sinew and muscle more than he had done for seve-
ral years before, and thrown himself into a profuse per-
spiration.
When the doctor was satisfied with the exertions of
his patient, he sent into the room an easy chair for him
to rest upon, and suffered the floor to cool as gradually
as it had been heated Then it was that the sick man
for the first time began to be sensible of the real use
and pleasure of repose he had earned it by fatigue,
without which it can never prove either salutary or
agreeable.
At dinner the doctor appeared again to his patient,
and made him a thousand apologies for the liberties he
had taken with his person ; these excuses he received with
a Kind of sullen civility ; however, bis anger was a
200 8ANDFOED AND MERTOlt.
little mitigated by the smell of a roasted pullet, whict
was brought to table, and set before him. He pow, from
exercise and abstinence, began to find a relish in his vie
tuals which he had never done before, and the doctor
permitted him to mingle a little wine with his water
These compliances, however, were so extremely rksome
to his temper, that the month seemed to pass away as
slowly as a year. When it was expired, and his ser-
vants came to ask his orders, he instantly threw him-
self into his carriage, without taking leave of the doctor
or his family. When he came to reflect upon the treat-
ment he had received, his forced exercises, his involun-
tary abstinence, and all the other mortifications he had
undergone, he could not conceive but it must be a plot
of the physician he had left behind, and, full of rage
and indignation, drove directly to his house, in o; der to
reproach him with it.
The physician happened to be at home, but scarcely
knew his patient again, though after so short an absence.
He had shrunk to half his former bulk, his look and co-
lour were mended, and he had entirely thrown away his
crutches. When he had given vent to all that his an-
ger could suggest, the physician coolly answered in tho
following mann r : — I know not, sir, what right you
have to make me these reproaches, since it was not by
mv persuasion that you put yourself under the care of
Doctor Ramozini.' — * Yes, sir, but you gave me a high
character of his skill and integrity.' — ' Has he then de«
ceived you in either, or do you find yourseif worse than
when you put yourself under his care?' ; — 'I cannoi
lay that, 1 answered the gentleman : « I am, to be sure.
THE RETURN 201
tttrpri singly improved in my digestion ,* I steep bettei
than ever I did before ; I eat with an appetite ; and I can
walk almost as well as ever I could in my life.' — l And
do you seriously come,' said the physician, * to com-
plain of a man that has effected all these miracles for
you in so short a time, and, unless you are now want-
ing to yourself, has given you a degree of life and health
which you had not the smallest reason to expect?
The gentleman, who had not sufficiently considered
all these advantages, began to look a little confused, and
the physician thus went on : 'All that you have to com-
plain of is, that you have been involuntarily your own
dupe, and cheated into health ard happiness. You
went to Dr. Ramozini, and saw a parcel of miserable
wretches comfortaby ;it din er. That great and worthy
man is the father of all about him : he knows that most
of the diseases of the poor originate in their want of
food and necessaries, and therefore benevolently assists
them with better diet and clothing. The rich, on the
contrary, are generally the victims of their own sloth
and intemperance, and therefore he finds it necessary to
use a contrary method of cure — excercise, abstinence,
and mortification. You sir, have indeed been treated
like a child, but it has been for your own advantage.
Neither your bed, nor meat, nor drink, has ever been
medicated : all the wonderful change that has been pro.
duced, has been by giving you better habits, and rousing
the slumbering powers of your own constitution. As to
deception, you have none to complain of except whai
proceeded from your own foolish imagination, whicn per-
suaded you that a physician was to regulate his con-
202 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
duct by the folly and intemperance of his patient. Ai
to all the rest, he only promised to exert all the secret*
of his art for your cure ; and this, I am witness, he hat
done so effectually, that, were you to reward him with
half your fortune, it would hardly be too much for his
deserts.'
The gentleman, who did not want either sense or
generosity, could not help feeling the force of what was
said. He therefore made a handsome apology for his
behaviour, and instantly despatched a servant to Dr.
Ramozini, with a handsome present, and a letter ex-
pressing the highest gratitude : and so much satisfaction
did he find in the amendment of his health and spirits,
that he never again relapsed into his former habits of in-
temperance, but, by constant excercise and uniform mod-
eration, continued free from any considerable disease to
\ very comfortable old age.
* Indeed,' said Tommy, * this is a very diverting,
comical story ; and I should like very much to tell it to
the gouty gentlemen that come to our house.' — ' That,'
answered Mr. Barlow, ' would be highly improper, unless
you were particularly desired. Those gentleman can-
not be ignorant that such unbounded indulgence of their
appetites can only tend to increase the disease ; and
therefore you could teach them nothing new on the sub-
ject. But it would appear highly improper for such a
little boy as you to take upon him to instruct others
while he all the t.me wants so much instruction himself.
Thus,' continued Mr. Barlow, 'you see by this story
(wnich is applicable to half the rich in most countries'),
(nremuerance and excess are full as dangerous as wan*
THE STOIM SOS
•nd hardships. As to the Laplanders, wnom you were
in so much pain about, they are some of the healthiest
people whom the world produces. They generally live to
an extremely old age, free from all the common diseases
which we are acquainted with and subject to no other
ineonveniency than blindness, which is supposed to arise
from the continual prospect of snow, and the constan
smoke with which they are surrounded in their huts.'
Some few days after this conversation, when the snow
had nearly disappeared, though the frost and cold con-
tinued, the two little boys went out to take a walk. In.
sensibly they wandered so far that they scarcely knew
their way, and therefore resolved to return as speedily
as possible ; but unfortunately, in passing through a
wood, they entirely missed the track, and lost them-
selves. To add to their distress, the wind began to blow
most bitterly from the north, and a violent shower of
snow coming on, obliged them to seek the thickest
shelter they could find. They happened fortunately to
be near an aged oak, the inside of which gradually de«
eayinu, \\as worn away by time, and afforded an am-
ple opening to shelter them from the storm. Into this
the two little boys crept safe, and endeavoured to keep
each other warm, while a violent shower of snow and
sleet fell all around, and gradually covered the earth.
Tommy, who had been little used to hardships, bore it
for some time with fortitude, an 3 without uttering a
complaint. At length hunger and fear took entire pos-
session of his soul, and, turning to Harry with watery
eyes and a mournful voice, he asked him what they
should do f 'Do V said Harry, « we must wait here,
204 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
think, till the weather clears up a little, and then wt
will endeavour to find the way home.'
T. But what if the weather should not clear up at
ail?
fiT. In that case we must either endeavour to find our
way through the snow, or stay here, where we are so
conveniently sheltered.
T. But oh ! what a dreadful thing it is to be here all
alone in this dreary wood? And then I am so hungry,
and so cold : oh 1 that we had but a little fire to warm
us !
H. I have heard that shipwrecked persons, when they
have been cast away upon a desert coast, have made a
fire to warm themselves, by rubbing two pieces of wood
together till they cajught fire ; or here is a better thing :
I have a large knife in my pocket, and, if I could but
find a piece of flint, I could easily strike fire with the
back of it.
Harry then searched about, and, after some time,
found a couple of flints, though not without much diffi-
culty, as the grouna was nearly hidden with snow.
He then took the flints, and striking one upon the other
with all his force, he shivered them into several pieces;
out of these he chose the thinnest and sharpest, and lei
ling Tommy, with a smile that he believed that would
do he struck it several times against the back of his
knife, and thus produced several sparks of fire. • This/
said Harry, * will be sufficient to light a fire, if we can
but find something of a sufficiently combustible nature
to kindle from these sparks.' He then collected all the
driest leaves he could find, with little decayed pieces of
THK WOOD IRE. 205
wood, and, piling them into a heap, endeavoured to kin
die a blaze by the sparks which he continually struck
from his knife and the flint. But it was in vain ; the
leaves were not of a sufficiently combustible nature, and
while he wearied himself in vain, they were not at all
the more advanced. Tommy, who beheld the ill suc-
cess of his friend, began to be more and more terrifierl,
and in despair asked Harry, again, what they should
do ? Harry answered, that as they had failed in then
attempt to warm themselves, the best thing they could
do, was to endeavour to find their way home, more espe-
cially as the snow had now ceased, and the sky was be-
come much clearer. This Tommy consented to, and
with infinite difficulty they began their march, for, as
the snow had completely covered every track, and the
daylight began to fail, they wandered at random through
» vast and pathless wood. At every step which Tommy
.ook, he sunk almost to his knees in snow ; the wind
was bleak and cold, and it was with much difficulty that
Harry could prevail upon him to continue his journey.
kt length, however, as they thus pursued their way
with infinite toil, they came to some lighted embers,
which either some labourers, or some wandering pas-
senger, had lately quitted, and which were yet unex-
tinguished. * See,' said Harry, with joy, ' see what a
'ucky chance is this ! here is a fire ready lighted for us,
which needs only the assistance of a little wood to make
it burn.' Harry again collected all the dry pieces he
could find, and piled them upon the embers, which in a
few minutes began to blaze, and diffused a cheerful
warmth. Tommy than began to warm and chafe hil
18
206 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
almost frozen limbs over the fire with infinite deligh
at length he could not heip observing to Harry, thai
he never could have believed that a few dried sticks
could have been of so much consequence to him,
* Ah !' answered Harry, ' master Tommy, you have
been brought up in such a manner, that you never
knew what it was to want any thing : but that is not
the case with thousands and millions of people 1 have
seen hundreds of poor children that have neither bread
to eat, fire to warm, nor clothes to cover them. Only
think, then, what a disagreeable situation they must be
in ; yet they are so accustomed to hardship, that the)
do not cry in a twelvemonth as much as you have done
within this quarter of an hour.'
' Why,' answered Tommy, a little disconcerted at
the observation of his crying, * it cannot be expected
that gentlemen should be able to bear all these incon-
veniences as well as the poor.' — * Why not,' answered
Harry, * is not a gentleman as much a man as the poor
can be ? and if he is a man, should he not accustoir
himself to support every thing that his fellow-creatures
do?'
T. That is very true, but he will have all the con-
veniences of life provided fc * him ; victuals to eat, a
good warm bed, and a fire to warm him.
H. But he is not sure of having all these things as
long as he lives. Besides, I have often observed the
gentlemen and ladies in our neighbourhood riding about
•n coaches, and covered from head to foot, yet shaking
with the least breath of air, as if they all had agues,
*vhne the children of the poor run about bare-footeo
GENTLEMEN. 207
upon the ice awd divert themselves with making snow,
balls.
T. That is indeed true ; for I have seen my mother's
visitors sitting over the largest fire that could be made,
and complaining of cold, while the labourers out of doors
were stripped to their shirts to work, and never minded
it in the least.
H. Then I should think that exercise, by which a
person can warm himself when he pleases, is an infi-
nitely better thing than all these conveniences you speak
of, because, after all, they will not hinder a person
from being cold, but exercise will warm him in an in-
stant.
T. But then it is not proper for gentlemen to do the
same kind of work with the common people.
H. But is it not proper for a gentleman to have his
body stout and hardy?
T. To be sure it is.
H. Why then he must sometimes labour and use his
limbs, or else he will never be able to do it.
T. What ? Cannot a person be strong without
working?
H. You can judge for yourself. You very often
have fine young gentlemen at your father's house, and
are any of them as strong as the sons of the farmers in
the neighbourhood, who are always used to handle a
jioe, a spade, a fork, and other tools ?
T. Indeed, I believe that is true, for I think I am be*
come stronger myself, since I have learned to diver.
myself in Mr. Barlow's garden.
As they were conversing in th.s manner, a little bov
208 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
came singing along, with a bundle of sticks at his back,
and as soon as Harry saw him, he recollected him, and
cried out, ' As I am alive, here is Jack Smithers, the
little ragged boy that you gave the clothes to in the
summer ! He lives, t dare say, in the neighbourhood,
and either he, or his father, will now show you the
way home.'
Harry then spoke to the boy, and asked him, if he
could show them the way out of the wood 1 — ' Yes,
surely I can,' answered the boy ; * but I never should
have thought of seeing master Merton out so late, in such
a tempestuous night as this : but, if you will come
with me to my father's cottage, you may warm your-
selves at our fire ; and father will run to Mr. Barlow,
to let him know you are safe.'
Tommy accepted the offer with joy ; and the little
boy led them out of the wood, and in a few minutes
they came to a small cottage which stood by the side of
the road ; which, when they entered, they saw a middle-
aged woman busy in spinning ; the eldest girl was cook-
ing some broth over the fire ; the father was sitting in
the chimney-corner, and reading a book, while three or
four ragged children were tumbling upon the floor, and
creeping between their father's legs.
' Daddy,' said the little boy, as he came in, ' here is
master Merton who was so good to us all in the sum-
mer; he has lost his way in the wood, and is almosl
perished in the snow.'
The man upon this arose, and with much civility
desired the two little boys to seat themselves by the fire
while the good-woman ran to fetch her largest faggot
THE COTTAGERS. t0$
which she threw upon the fire, and created a cheerfu
blaze in an instant. — * There, my dear little master,'
said she, ' you may at least refresh yourself a little by
our fire; and I wish I had any thing to offer you that
you could eat ; but I am afraid you would never be able
to bear such coarse brown bread as we poor folks are
obliged to eat.' { Indeed,' said Tommy, * my good mo-
ther, I have fasted so long, and I am so hungry, that I
think I could eat any thing*' — * Well, then,' answered
the woman, * here is a little bit of gammon of bacon
which I will broil for you upon the embers ; and if you
can make a supper, you are heartily welcome.'
While the good woman was thus preparing supper,
the man had closed his book, and placed it with great
respect upon a shelf, which gave Tommy the curiosity
to ask him what he was reading about 1 — * Master,' an-
swered the man, * I was reading the book which teachea
me my duty towards man, and my obligations to God ;
I was reading the Gospel of Jesus Christ, and teaching
it to my children.'
Tommy. Indeed I have heard of that book : Mr.
Barlow has often read part of it to me, and promised I
should read it myself. That is the book they read at
church ; I have often heard Mr. Barlow read it to the
people ; and he always reads it so well and so affection-
ately, that every body listens, and you may hear even
a pin drop upon the pavement.
The Man. Yes, master, Mr. Barlow is a wortny ser-
vant and follower of Jesus Christ himself; he is the
friend of all the poor in the neighbourhood ; he gives ua
food and medicines when we are ill ; and he employs
18*
tlO SANDFORD AND MERTON.
us when we can find no work : but what we are eves
more obliged to him for than the giving us food and
raiment, and life itself, he instructs us in our duty, make*
us ashamed of our faults, and teaches us how we may
be happy, not only here, but in another world. I was
once an idle abandoned man myself, given up to swear-
ing and drinking, neglecting my family, and taking no
thought of my poor wife and children r but since Mr.
Barlow has taught me better things, v x made me ac-
quainted with this blessed book, my ' e and manners, I
hope, are much amended, and I do r / duty better to my
poor family.
* That indeed you do, Robin,' i , iwered the woman ;
\ there is not now a better and lunder husband in the
world : you have not wasted au idle penny or a mo-
ment's time these two years ; and, without that unfor-
tunate fever, which prevented you from working last
harvest, we should have the greatest reason to be all con-
tented.'
4 Have we not the greatea. reason now,' answered the
man, * to be not only contented, but thankful for all the
blessings we enjoy 1 It in true, that I, and several of
the children, were ill this year for many weeks : but did
we not all escape, through the blessing of God, and the
care of good Mr. Barlow, and this worthy master Sand-
ford, who brought us victuals so many days, with his
own hands, when we otherwise should perhaps have
starved? Have I not had very good employment evei
since , and do I not now earn six shillings a week
whicn U> a very comfortable thing, when many pool
THE COTTAGERS. 211
wretches as good as I are starving, because they cannot
find employment?'
* Six shillings a week ! six shillings a week !' an
swered Tommy in amazement, « and is that all you
and your wife and children have to live on for a whole
week/
The Man. Not all, master ; my wife sometimes
earns a shilling or eighteen-pence a week by spinning,
and our eldest daughter begins to do something that
way, but not much.
Tammy. That makes seven shillings and sixpence
a week. Why, I have known my mother give more
than that to go to a place where outlandish people sing ;
I have seen her and other ladies give a man a guinea
for dressing their hair; and I knew a little miss, whose
father gives half-a-guinea a time to a little Frenchman,
who teaches her to jump and caper about the room.
' Master,' replied the man smiling, ' these are great
gentlefolks that you are talking about ; they are very
rich, and have a right to do what they please with their
own: it is the duty of us poor folks to labour hard, take
what we can get, and thank the great and wise God that
our condition is no worse.'
T. What, and is it possible that you can thank God
for living in such a house as this, and earning seven
shillings and six-pence a week ?
The Man. To be sure I can, master. Is it not an
act of His goodness, that we have clothes and a warm
house to shelter us, and wholesome food to eat? It was
but yesterday that two poor men came by, who hacj
been cast away in a storm, and lost their ship and aV
212 8ANDF0RD AND MERTOlf
ihey had. One of the poor men had scarcely an)
clothes to cover him, and was shaking all over with a
violent ague ; and the other had his toes almost morti
fied by walking bare- footed in the snow. Am I not a
great deal better off than these poor men, and perhaps
than a thousand others, who are at this time tost upon
the waves, or cast away, or wandering about the world,
without a shed to cover them from the weather ; or im-
prisoned for debt ? Might I not have gone on in com-
mitting bad actions, like many other unhappy men, till
I had been guilty of some notorious crime, which might
have brought me to a shameful end? And ought 1 not
to be grateful for all these blessings which I possess with-
out deserving them ?
Tommy, who had hitherto enjoyed all the good things
of this life without reflecting from whom he had re-
ceived them, was very much struck with the piety of
this honest and contented man : but as he was going
to answer, the good woman, who had laid a clean though
coarse cloth upon the table, and taken up her savoury
supper, in an earthen plate, invited them to sit down ; an
invitation which both the boys obeyed with the great-
est pleasure, as they had eaten nothing since the morn-
ing. In the mean time, the honest man of the house
had taken his hat, aud walked to Mr. Barlow's, to in-
form him that his two pupils were safe in the neigh-
bourhood.
Mr. Barlow had long suffered the greatest uneasiness
at their absence, and, not contented with sending after
them on every side, was at that very time busy in tha
pursuit *o that the man met him about half way frw»
THE STABS. 219
nis own house. As soon as Mr. Barlow heard the good
news, he determined to return with the man, and reached
his house just as Tommy Merton had finished one of
the heartiest meals he had ever made.
The little boys rose up to meet Mr. Barlow, and
thanked him for his kindness, and the pains he had
taken to look after them : expressing their concern for the
accident which had happened, and the uneasiness which
without designing it, they had occasioned : but he, with
the greatest good nature, advised them to be more cau-
tious for the future, and not to extend their walks so far .
then thanking the worthy people of the house, he of-
fered to conduct them ; and they all three set out to-
gether, in a very cold, but fine and star-light evening.
As they went home Mr. Barlow renewed his caution,
and told them the dangers they had incurred. — ' Many
people,' said he, * in your situation, have been surprised
by an unexpected storm, and, losing their way, have
perished with cold. Sometimes both men and beasts
not being able to discern their accustomed track, have
fallen into deep pits filled up and covered with the snow
where they have been found buried several feet deep,
and frozen to death.' — ' And is it impossible,' said Tom-
my, * in such a case to escape V — ' In general it is,' said
Mr. Barlow ; * but there have been some extraordinary
instances of persons who have lived several days in
that condition, and yet have been taken out alive : to-
morrow you shall read a remarkable story to thai
purpose.'
As thev were walking on Tommy looked up at th«
iky, where all the stars glimmered with unusual bright
£14 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
neas ; and said, ' What an innumerable number of sjun
is here ! I think I never observed so many before in ali
my life !' — Innumerable as they appear to you,' said
Mr. Barlow, « there are persons that have not only
counted all you now see, but thousands more, which are
at present invisible to your eye.' — 'How can that be?*
inquired Tommy ; ' for there is neither beginning nor
end : they are scattered so confusedly about the sky,
that I should think it as impossible to number them, as
the flakes of snow that fell to-day, while we were in the
wood.
At this Mr. Barlow smiled, and said that he believed
Harry could give him a different account, although per-
haps he could not number them all. — « Harry,' said he,
4 cannot you show your companion some of the con-
stellations V — « Yes,' answered Harry, ' I believe I re-
member some, that you have been so good as to teach
me. — < But pray, sir,' said Tommy, ' what is a constel-
lation V
« Those,' answered Mr. Barlow, « who first began to ob«
serve the heavens as you do now, have observed certain
stars, remarkable either for their brightness or position.
To these they have given . a particular name, that
they might the more easily know them again, and dis-
course of them to others ; and these particular clusters
of stars, thus joined together and named, they call con-
stellations. But, come, Harry, you are a little farmer
and can certainly point out to us Charles's Wain.'
Harry then looked up to the sky, and pointed ou*
seven very bright stars toward the North — ' You are
right, said Mr. Barlow; • four of these stars have pu :
THE POLAR STAR. Slfl
the common people in mind of the four wheels of a wag«
on, and the three others of the horses ; therefore they
have called them by that name. Now, Tommy, look
well at these, and see if you can lind any seven stars
in the whole sky that resemble them in their position.'
T. Indeed, sir, I do not think I can.
Mr. B. Do not you think, then, that you can fine/
them again.
T. I will try, sir. Now, I will take my eye off,
and look another way. I protest I cannot find them
again. Oh ! I believe there they are. Pray, sir,
(pointing with his finger,) is not that Charles' s Wain.
Mr. B. You are right ; and, by remembering these
stars, you may very easily observe those which are nex
to them, and learn their names too, till you are ac-
quainted with the whole face of the heavens.
T. That is indeed very clever and very surprising.
I will show my mother Charles's Wain, the first time I
go home : I dare say she has never observed it.
Mr. B. But look on the two stars which compose the
hinder wheel of the wagon, and raise your eye up to
wards the top of the sky ; do you not see a very bright
star, that seems to be almost, but not quite, in a line
with the two others ?
T. Yes, sir ; I see it plainly
Mr. B. That is called the Pole-star ; it never moves
from its place, and, by looking full at it, you may
always find the North.
T Then, if I turn my face toward tnat star I F.wayi
look to the North.
Mr. B. You are right.
216 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
T. Then I shall turn my back to the South.
M? . B. You are right again : and now cannot yo%
tell the East and the West?
T. Is it not the East where the sun rises ?
Mr . B. Yes : but there is no sun to direct you now
T. Then, sir I cannot find it out.
Mr. B. Do not you know, Harry 1
H. I believe, sir, that if you turn your face to the
North, the East will be on the right hand, and the West
on the left.
Mr. B. Perfectly right.
T. that is very clever indeed : so then, by knowing
the Pole-star I can always find North, East, West, and
South, But you said that the Pole-star never moves ; do
the other stars, then, move out of their places?
Mr. B. That is a question you may learn to answer
yourself, by observing the present appearance of the
heavens ; and then examining whether the stars change
their places at any future time.
T. But, sir, I have thought that it would be a good
contrivance, in order to remember their situations, if 1
were to draw them upon a bit of paper.
Mr. B. But how would you do that ?
T. I would make a mark upon the paper for every
star in Charles's Wain ; and I would place the marks
just as I see the stars placed in the sky, and I would
entreat you to write the names for me, and this I
would do till I was acquainted with all the stars in the
heaveus.
Mr. B. That would be an excellent way, but you see
» paper is flat ; is that the form of the sky ?
THJB POLE STAB. 217
T. No ; the sky seems to rise from the earth on every
gide like the dome of a great church.
Mr. B. Then if yon were to have some round body 1
should think it vould correspond to the different parts
of the sky, and you might place your stars with mora
exactness.
T. Th-it is true, indeed, sir; I wish I had just such a
globe.
Mr. B. Weil, just such a globe I will endeavour to
procure you.
T. Sir, 1 am much obliged to you, indeed. But what
use is it oi to know the stars?
Mr B. We e there no other use. I should think there
would be a very great pleasure in observing such a
number of glo i ,us glittering bodies as are now above
us. We sometimes run to see a procession of coaches,
or a few people in fine clothes strutting about. We ad-
mire a large room that is painted, and ornamented, and
gilded : but what is there in all these things to be com-
pared with the sight of these luminous bodies that adorn
pvery part of the sky ?
T. That's true, indeed. My lord Wimple's great
room, that I have heard all the people admire so much,
m no more to be compared to it than the shabbiest thing
in the world.
Mr. B. That is indeed, true, but there are some,
and those very important, uses to be derived from an
acquaintance with the stars. Harry, do you tell mas-
ter Merton the story of your being lost upon the great
moor.
H. You must know, master Tommy, that I have an
id
218 SANDFOSt) AND MERTON.
uncle lives about three miles off, across the great mooi
that we have sometimes walked upon. Now my father,
as I am in general pretty well acquainted with th«
roads, very often sends me with messages to my uncle.
One evening I came there so late, that it was scarcely
possible to get home again, before it was quite dark. It
was at that time in the month of October. My uncle
wished me very much to stay at his house all night, but
that was not proper for me to do, because my father
had ordered me to come back ; so I set out as soon as 1
possibly could, but just as I had reached the heath the
evening grew extremely dark.
T. And were you not frightened to find yourself all
slone upon such a dismal place 1
H. No ; I knew the worst that could happen would
be that I should stay there all night, and as soon as ever
the morning shone, I should have found my way home.
But, however, by the time that I had reached the middle
of the heath, there came on such a violent tempest of
wind, blowing full in my face, accompanied with such a
shower, that I found it impossible to continue my way.
So I quitted the track, which is never very easy to find,
and ran aside to a holly-bush that was growing at some
distance, in order to seek a little shelter. Here I lay,
very conveniently, till the storm was almost over; then
I rose and attempted to continue my way, but unfortu-
nately I missed the track, and lost myself.
T. That was a very dismal thing indeed.
H. I wandered about a great while, but still to n<i
Durpose. I had not a single mark to direct me, because
the common is so extensive, and so bare either of tree*
TUB LIGHT. 31
or nouses, that one may walk for miles and see no.ning
but heath and furze. Sometimes I tore my legs in
scrambling through great thickets of furze ; now and
then I plumped into a hole full of water, and should have
been drowned if I had not learned to swim ; so that
at last I was going to give it up in despair, when
looking on one side, I saw a light at a little distance,
which seemed to be a candle and lantern that somebody
was carrying across the moor.
T. Did not that give you very great comfort 1
* You shall hear,' answered Harry, smiling. * At first
I was doubtful whether I should go up to it, but 1 con-
sidered that it was not worth any body's pains to hurt a
poor boy like me, and that no person who was out on any
ill-design would probably choose to carry a light. So
I determined boldly to go up to it, and inquire the way.'
T. And did the person with the candle and lantern
direct you ?
H, I began walking up towards it, when immedi-
ately the light, which I had first observed on my right
hand, moving slowly along by my side changed its di-
rection, and went directly before me, with about the
same degree of swiftness. I thought this very odd, but
I still continued the chase, and just as I thought I had
approached very near, I tumbled into another pit, full of
water.
T. That was unlucky indeed.
H. Well, I scrambled out, and very luckily on the
same side with the light, which I began to follow again
but with as little success as ever. I had now wandered
many miles about the common ; J knew no more where
220 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
i was than if I had been set down upon an unknown
country : I had no hopes of finding my way home, un-
less I could reach this wandering light ; and, though I
could not conceive that the person who carried it could
know of my being so near, he seemed to act as if he was
determined to avoid me. However, I was resolved to
make one attempt, and therefore I began to run as fast
as I was able, hallooing out, at the same time, to the
person that I thought before me, to entreat him to stop.
T. And did he 1
H. Instead of that the light, which had before been
moving along at a slow and easy pace, now began to
dance as it were before me, ten times faster than before
—-so that, instead of overtaking it, T found myself far-
ther and farther behind. Still, however, I ran on, till I
unwarily sunk up to the middle in a large bog, out of
which I at last scrambled with a very great difficulty.
Surprised at this, and not conceiving that any human
being could pass over such a bog as this, I determined
to pursue it no longer. But now I was wet and weary ;
the clouds had indeed rolled away, and the moon and
stars began to shine ; I locked around me, and could
discern nothing but a wide, barren country, without so
much as a tree to shelter me, or any animal in sight,
i listened, in hopes of hearing a sheep-bell, or the bark-
ing of a dog, but nothing met my ear, except the shrill
whistling of the wind, which blew so cold, that it chilled
me to the very heart. In this situation I stopped awhile
to consider what I should do ; and raising my eyes by
accident to the sky, the first object I beheld was that
rery constellation of Charles's Wain, and above it I di»
THE LIGHT. 221
cerned the Pole-star, glimmering, as it were, from the
very top of Heaven. Instantly a thought came into my
mind : I considered, that when I had been walking
along the road which led towards my uncle's nouse, I
had often observed the Pole-star full before me : there-
fore it occurred to me, that if I turned my back exactly
upon it, and went straight forward in a contrary direc-
tion, it must lead me towards my father's house. As
soon as I had formed this resolution, I began to execute
it. I was persuaded I should now escape, and there-
fore, forgetting my fatigue, I ran along as briskly as i{
I had but then set out. Nor was I disappointed, for
though I could see no tracks, yet, taking the greatest
care always to go on in that direction, the moon afforded
me light enough to avoid the pits and bogs which are
found in various parts of that wild moor : and when I
travelled, as I imagined, about three miles, I heard the
barking of a dog, which gave me double vigour; and
going a little farther, I came to some inclosures at the
skirts of the common, which I knew, so that I then with
ease found my way home, after having almost despaired
of doing it.
T. Indeed, then, the knowledge of the Pole-star was
of very great use to you. I am determined I will
make myself acquainted with all the stars in the hea-
vens But did you ever find out what that lighi
was, which danced before you in so extraordinary a
manner?
H. When I came home, my father told me $ was
what the common people call a Jack-o'-the-lantern : and
Mr. Barlow has since informed me, that these things
19*
222 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
are only vapour, which rise out of the earth in mow*
and fenny places although they have that bright appear
ance, and therefore told me that many people, like me,
who have taken them for a lighted candle, have followed
them, as I did, into bogs and ditches.
Just as Harry had finished his history, they arrived at
Mr. Barlow's ; and after sitting some time, and talking
over the accidents of the day, the little boys retired to
bed. Mr. Barlow was sitting alone and reading in his
parlour, when, to his great surprise, Tommy came run-
ning into the room, half undrest, and bawling out, « Sir,
sir, I have found it out ! they move ! they move !' —
* What moves V said Mr. Barlow. — ' Why, Charles's
Wain moves,' anwered Tommy ; * I had a mind to take
one peep at the sky before I went to bed, and I see that all
the seven stars have moved from their places a great way
higher up the sky.' — « Well,' said Mr. Barlow, « you are
indeed right. You have done a vast deal to-day ; and
to-morrow wc will talk over these things again.'
When the morrow came, Tommy put Mr. Barlow in
mind of the story he had promised him about the people
buried in the snow. Mr. Barlow looked him out the
book, but first said, * It is necessary to give you some
explanation. The country where this accident happened
is a country full of rocks and mountains, so excessively
high that the snow never melts upon their tops.'
Never?' said Tommy; * not even in the summer?'
— * Not even in the summer. The valleys between
these mountains are inhabited by a brave and industri-
ous peop'e ; the sides of them, too, are cultivated, but
he tons of the highest mountains are so extremely cole
THE SNOW FALL. 223
thai the ice and snow never melt, but go on continually
increasing. During a great part of the winter the wea-
ther is extremely cold, and the inhabitants confine them
selves within their houses, which they have the art to
render very comfortable. Almost all the roads are
then impassable, and snow and ice afford the only pros-
pect. But when the year begins to grow warmer, the
snow is frequently thawed upon the sides of the moun-
tains, and undermined by the torrents of water which
pour down with irresistible fury. Hence it frequently
happens that such prodigious masses of snow fall down
as are sufficient to bury beasts and houses, and even vil
lages themselves beneath them.
1 It was in the neighbourhood of these prodigious
mountains, which are called the Alps, that on the 19th of
March, 1755, a small cluster of houses was entirely over-
whelmed by two vast bodies of snow that tumbled down
upon them from a greater height. All the inhabitants
were then within doors, except one Joseph Rochia, and
his son, a lad of fifteen, who were on the roof of their house
clearing away the snow which had fallen for three days
incessantly. A priest going by to church advised them
to come down, having just before observed a body of
mow tumbling from the mountain towards them. The
man descended with great precipitation, and fled with
his son, he knew not whither : but scarcely had he gone
thirty or forty steps before his son, who followed him,
fell down : on which, looking back, he saw his own and
his neighbours' houses, in which were twenty-two pet-
sons in all, covered with a high mountain of snow. He
\ifted up his son, and reflecting that his wife, his siite*
224 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
two children, and all his effects, were thus buried, he
fainted away ; but, soon reviving, got safe to a friend's
house at some distance.
4 Five days after, Joseph, being perfectly recovered)
got upon the snow, wrth his son and two of his wife's
brothers^ to try if he could find the exact place where
his house stood, but, after many openings made in the
snow, they could not discover it. The month cf April
proving hot, and the snow beginning to soflen, he again
used his utmost endeavours to recover his effects, and
to bury, as he thought, the remains of his family,
He made new openings, and threw in earth to melt
the snow, which on the 24th of April was greatly
diminished. He broke through ice six English feet
thick, with iron bars, thrust down a long pole, and
touched the ground, but evening coming on he de
sisted.
* The next day, the brother of his wife, who had heard
of the misfortunes of the family, came to the house
«vhere Joseph was, and after resting himself a little went
with him to work upon the snow, where they made ano-
ther opening, which led them to the house they searched
for; but, finding no dead bodies in its ruins, they sought
for the stable, which was about two hundred and forty
English feet distant, which having found, they heard the
cry of'* Help, my dear brother!' 1 Being greatly surprised;
as well as encouraged by these words, they laboured
with all diligence till they had made a large opening
through which the brother immediately went down, where
the *ster with an agonizing and feeble voire, told him.
* \ hav« always trusted in God and you, that you woulo
WONDERFUL PRESERVATION. 22ft
not forsake me." The other brother and tlje husband
then went down, and found, still alive, the wife, about
forty-five, the sister, about thirty-five, and the daughter
about thirteen years old. These they raised on then
shoulders to men above, who pulled them up as if from
he grave, and carried them to a neighbouring house :
they were unable to walk, and so wasted, that they ap-
peared like mere skeletons. They were immediately
put to bed, and gruel of rye-flour and a little butter wai
given to recover them.
4 Some days after, the magistrate of the place came
to visit them, and found the wife still unable to rise from
bed, or use her feet, from the intense cold she had en-
dured, and the uneasy posture she had been in. The
sister, whose legs had been bathed with hot wine, could
walk with some difficulty, and the daughter needed no
farther remedies.
• On the magistrate's interrogating the women, they
told him that, on the morning of the 19th of March,
they were in the stable, with a boy of six years old, and
a girl of about thirteen. In the same stable were six
goats, one of which having brought forth two dead kids
the night before, they went to carry her a small vessel of
rye-flour gruel ; there were also an ass, and five or Six
fowls. They were sheltering themselves in a warm
corner of the stable till the church bell should ring, in
tending to attend the service. The wife related that,
Wanting to go out of the stable to kindle a fire in the
house of her husband, who was clearing away the sncw
from the top of it, she perceived a mass of snow Dread-
ing down toward the East, upon which she went bacx
$20 SANDFORD AND MERTOPT.
irn.0 the stable shut the door, and told her sister of n
In less than three minutes they heard the roof break
over their heads, and also a part of the ceiling. . The sis*
ter advised to get into the rack and manger, which they
did. The ass was tied to the manger, but got loose by
kicking and struggling, and threw down the little vessel,
which they found, and afterwards used to hold the mel-
ted snow, which served them for drink.
* Very fortunately the manger was under the main
prop of the stable, and so resisted the weight of the
snow. Their first care was to know what they had to
eat. The sister said she had fifteen chesnuts in her
pockets: the children said they had breakfasted, and
should want no more that day. They remembered
there were thirty-six or forty cakes in a place near the
stable, and endeavoured to get at them, but were not
able for the snow. They called often for help, but were
heard by none. The sister gave the chesnuts to the
wife, and ate two herself, and they drank some snov
water. The ass was restless, and the goats kept bleat
ing for some days, after which they heard no more ol
them. Two of the goats, however, being left alive, and
near the manger, they felt them, and found that one of
them was big, and would kid, as they recollected, about
the middle of April ; the other gave milk, wherewith
they preserved their lives. During all this time, they
paw not one ray of light, yet for about twenty days
they had some notice of night and day from the crowing
of the fowls, till they died.'
'The second day, being very hungry, they ate all the
thesnuts, and drank what milk the goat yielded, being
WONDERFUL PRESERVATION. 221
«erjr near two pounds a day at first, but it soon de>
creased. The third day they attempted again, but in
vain, to get at the cakes ; so resolved to take all possible
care to feed the goats; lor just above the manger was
a hay-loft, where, through a hole, the sister pulled down
hay into the rack, and gave it to the goats as kng as
she could reach it, and then, when it was bey >ad her
reach, the goats climbed upon her shoulders, */ i reached
it themselves.
' On the sixth day the boy sickenec *■ .d six days
after desired his mother, who all this tii had held kim
in her lap, to lay him at his length in tl j manger. > r to
did so, and taking him by the hand, felt it was very col )
she then put her hand to his mouth, and finding th
cold likewise, she gave him a little milk ; the boy thu
cried, " Oh ! my father is in the snow ! Oh father
father !" and then expired.
1 In the meanwhile, the goat's milk diminished daily
and, the fowls soon after dying, they could no long©
distinguish night from day ; but according to their reck-
oning, the time was near when the other goat would kid ;
this she accordingly did soon, and the young one dying,
they had all the milk for their own subsistence ; so they
found that the middle of April was come. Whenevei
they called this goat, it would come and lick their faces
and hands, and gave them every day two pounds of
milk ; on which account they still bear the poor creature
a great affection.
* This was the account which these poor people gave
to the magistrate of their preservation.'
c Dear heart !' said Tommy, when Mr. Barlow had
*28 SAND* OK D AND SIERTON.
finished this account, * what a number of accidents peo
pie are subject to in this world.' — ' It is very true,' an-
swered Mr. Barlow ; ' but as that is the case, it it
necessary to improve ourselves in every manner, that
we may be able to struggle against them.'
T. Indeed, sir, I begin to believe it is ; for when J
was less than I am now, I remember I was always fret-
ful and hurting myself, though I had two or three people
constantly to take care of me. At present, I seem as
if I was quite another thing : I do not mind falling
down and hurting myself, or cold, or weariness, 01
scarcely any thing which happens.
Mr, B. And which do you prefer ; to be as you are
now, or as you were before?
T. As I am now, a great deal, sir ; for then I always
had something or another the matter with me. Some*
times I had a little cold, and then I was obliged to sta}
in for several days ; sometimes a little head-ache, and
then I was forced to take physic ; sometimes the wea-
ther was too hot, then I must stay within, and the same
if it was too cold ; I used to be tired to death, if I did
but walk a mile, and I was always eating cake and
sweetmeats till I made myself sick. At present I think
I am ten times stronger and healthier than ever I was in
my life. But what a terrible country that must be,
where people are subject to be buried in that manner in
the snow ! I wonder any body will live there.
Mr. B. The people who inhabit that country are of
a Hi fib rent opinion, and prefer it to all the countries in
the world. They are great travellers, and many of
them follow different professions in all the dhTeren
TOWN AND COUNTRY 829
countries of Europe; but it is the only wish of almost
all to return, before their death, to the mountains where
they were born and have passed their youth.
T. I do not easily understand that. I have seen a
great many ladies and little misses at our house ; and
whenever they were talking of the places where they
should like to live, I have always heard them say that
they hated the country of all things, though they were
born and bred there. I have heard one say the coun-
try is odious, filthy, shocking, and abominable; another,
that it is impossible to live any where but in London ,
and I remember once seeing a strange lady, who wrote
down her observations in a book ; and she said the
country was all full of barbarians, and that no person of
elegance (yes, that was her word) could bear it for a
week.
Mr. B. And yet there are thousands who bear to live
in it all their lives, and have no desire to change. Should
you, Harry, like to leave the country, and go to live in
some town ?
H. Indeed, sir, I should not : for then I must leavt,
every thing I love in the world ; I must leave my father
and mother, who have been so kind to me ; and you, too,
sir, who have taken such pains to improve me, and
make me good. I am convinced that I never shall find
■uch friends again as long as I live ; and what should
any body wish to live for, who has no friends? Be-
fides, there is not a field upon my father's farm, that i
do not prefer to every town I ever saw in my life.
T. And have you ever been in any large town?
H. Once I was in Exeter, but I did not much like it
20
280 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
tbo houses seemed to me to stand so thick and close
that I think our hog-sties would be almost as agreeable
places to live in : and then there are little narrow alleys
where the poor live : and the houses are so high, that
neither light nor air can ever get to them : and they
most of them appeared so dirty and unhealthy, that it
made my heart ache to look at them. And then I
walked along the streets, and peeped into the shops, —
and what do you think I saw ?
T. What?
H. Why, I saw great hulking fellows, as big as our
ploughmen and carters, with their headc all frizzled and
curled like one of our sheep's tails, that did nothing but
finger ribands and caps (or the women ! This diverted
me so, that I could not help laughing ready to split my
sides. And then, the gentlewoman at whose house I
was, took me to a place, where there was a large room
full of candles, and a great number of fine gentlemen
and ladies all dressed out and showy, who were dancing
about as if they were mad. But at the door of this
house there were twenty or thirty ragged, half-starved
women and children, who stood shivering in the rain,
and begged for a bit of bread : but nobody gave it to
them, or took any notice of them. So then I could not
help thinking that it would be a great deal better, if all
the fine people would give some of their money to the
poor that they might have some clothes and victuals in
their turn.
T. That is indeed true. Had 1 been there, I should
aave relieved the poor people ; — for you know I am very
FOLLIES. 231
good-natured and generous : but it is necessary for gen.
tlemen to be fine and to dress well.
H. It may be so ; but I never saw any great good
come of it, for my part. As I was walking along the
streets one day, and staring about, I met two very fine
and dressy young gentlemen, who looked something as
you did, master Tommy, when you first came here, so
I turned off from the foot-way to let them pass, for my
father always taught me to show every civility to people
in a higher station : but that was not enough it seems ;
for just as they passed by me, they gave me such a vio-
lent push, that down I came into the kennel, and dirtied
myself all over from head to foot.
T. And did they not beg your pardon for the ac-
cident ?
H. Accident ! it was no accident at all : for they
burst out into a fit of laughter, and called me a little
clodpole. Upon which I told them, if I was a clodpole
they had no business to insult me ; and then they came
back, and one of them gave me a kick, and the other a
Blap on the face : but I told them that was too much for
me to bear ; so I struck them again ; and we all three
began fighting,
T. What, both at once 1 That was a cowardly trick
H. 1 did not much mind that, but there came up a
fine smart fellow, in white stockings and powdered hair,
who, it seems, was their servant ; and he was going to
fall upon me too, but a man took my part, and said, 1
should have fair play, so I fought them both till they
did not choose to have any more ; for, though they were
10 quarrelsome, they could not fight worth a farthing*
832 8ANDF0KD AND MERTON.
so I let them go, and advised them not to meddle any
more with poor boys who did nothing to offend them.
T. And did you hear no more of these young gen-
tlemen?
H. No ; for I went home the next day, and never
was I better pleased in my life. When I came to the
top of the great hill, from which you have a prospect of
our house, I really thought I should have cried with joy.
The fields looked all so pleasant, and the cattle that were
.eeding in them so happy ; and then every step I took,
I met with somebody or other I knew, or some little boy
that I used to play with. ' Here is little Harry come
back,' said one. ' How do ye do, how do ye do V
cried a second. Then a third shook hands with me ;
and the very cattle, when I went about to see them,
seemed all glad that I was come home again.
Mr. B. You see by this, that it is very possible tor
people to like the country, and be happy in it. But as
to the fine young ladies you talk of, the truth is, that
they neither love, nor would be long contented in any
place, their whole happiness consists in idleness and
finery : they have neither learned to employ themselves
in any thing useful, nor to improve their minds. As to
every kind of natural exercise, they are brought up with
too much delicacy to be able to bear it, and from the
improper indulgences they meet with, they learn to
tremble at ever} trifling change of the seasons. With
such dispositions, it is no wonder they dislike the coun-
try, where they find neither employment nor amuse-
ment. They wish to go to London, because there they
meet with infinite numbsrs, as idle and frivolous as
AMUSEMENTS. 233
themselves : and these people mutually assist each othei
to talk about trifles, and waste their time.
T. That is true, sir, really ; for when we have a great
deal of company, I have often observed, that they never
talked about any thiny; but eating or dressing, or men
and women that are paid to make faces at the play-
house, or a great room called Rmielagh, where every
body goes to meet his friends.
Mr. B. I believe Harry will never go there to meet
his friends.
H. Indeed, sir, I do not know what Ranelagh is ; but
all the friends I have are at home ; and when I sit by
the fire-side on a winter's night, and read to my father
and mother, and sisters, as I sometimes do, or when I
talk with you and master Tommy upon improving sub-
jects, I never desire any other friends or conversation.
But, pray, sir, what is Ranelagh?
Mr. B. Ranelagh is a very large round room, to
which, at particular times of the year, great numbers of
persons go in their carriages to walk about for several
hours.
H. And does nobody go there that has not several
friends? Because master Tommy said that people went
to Ranelagh to meet their friends.
Mr. Barlow smiled at this question, and answered,
The room is generally sc crowded, that people have
little opportunity for any kind of conversation : they
walk round and round in a circle, one after the other
just like horses in a mill. When persons meet tnat
know each othei, they perhaps smile and bow, but are
shoved forward, without having any opportunity to stop,
20*
234 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
\s to friends, few people go to look for them tnere ,
and if they were to meet them, few would take the
trouble of speaking to them, unless they were dressed
in a fashionable manner, and seemed to be of conse>
quence.
H. That is very extraordinary, indeed. Why^ sir,
what can a man's dress have to do with friendship ?
Should I love you a bit better if you were to wear the
finest clothes in the world ; or should I like my father
the better if he were to put on a laced coat like Squire
Chase? On the contrary, whenever I see people dressed
very fine, I cannot help thinking of the story you once
read me of Agesilaus, king of Sparta.
T. What is that story ? Do pray let me hear it.
Mr. B. To-morrow you shall hear it ; at present we
have read and conversed enough : it is better that you
should go out and amuse yourselves.
The little boys then went out, and returned to a divi-
sion they had been amusing themselves with for several
days, the making a prodigious snow ball. They had be-
gun by making a small globe of snow with their hands.,
which they turned over and over, till by continually
collecting fresh matter, it grew so large that they were
unable to roll it any farther. Here Tommy observed
ihat their labours must end, * for it was impossible to
turn it any longer.' — * No,' said Harry, ' I know a
remedy for that.' So he ran and fetched a couple of
thick sticks, about five feet long, and giving one of them
to Tommy, he took the other himself. He then de
lired Tommy to put the end of his stick under the mass,
while he did the same on his side ; and then lifting al
THE USE OE THE LEVER. 28ft
the other end, they rolled the heap forward with tho
greatest ease.
Tommy was extremely surprised at this, and said, * How
can this be ? We are not a bit stronger than we were
before ; and yet now we are able to roll this snow ball
along with ease, which we could not even stir before.' —
* That is very true,' answered Harry, but it is owing to
these sticks. This is the way that the labourers move
the largest trees, which, without this contrivance, they
would not be able to stir.' — « I am very much surprised
at this,' said Tommy ; * I never should have imagined
that the sticks would have given us more strength than
we had before.'
Just as he had said this, by a violent effort, both their
sticks broke short in the middle. — ' This is no great loss,'
observed Tommy ; ' for the ends will do just as well as
the whole sticks.'
They then tried to shove the ball again with the trun-
cheons which remained in their hands ; but to the new sur-
prise of Tommy, they found they were unable to stir it.' —
I That is very curious indeed,' said Tommy ; » I find that
only long sticks are of any use.' — ' That,' said Harry
I I could have told you before ; but I had a mind you
should find it out yourself. The longer the stick is pro-
vided it is sufficiently strong, and you can manage it,
the more easily will you succeed.' — ' This is really very
curious,' replied Tommy ; ' but I see some of Mr. Bar.
tow's labourers at work a little way off; let us go tc
hem, and desire them to cut us two longer sticks, thai
ve may try their effect.'
They then went up to the men who were at work
136 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
but here a new subject of admiration presented itself te
Tommy's mind. There was a root of a prodigious oak
tree, so large and heavy, that half a dozen horses would
scarcely have been able to draw it along : besides, it was
so tough and knotty, that the sharpest axe could hardly
make any impression upon it. This a couple of old
men were attempting to cleave in pieces, in order to
make billets for Mr Barlow's fire.
Tommy, who thought their strength totally dispropor-
tionate to such an undertaking, could not help pitying
them ; and observing, that certainly Mr. Barlow i did
not know what they were about, or he would have pre-
vented such poor, weak old men from fatiguing them-
selves about what they never could perform.' — « Do you
think so?' replied Harry; 'what would you then say,
if you were to see me, little as I am, perform this won-
derful task, with the assistance of one of these good
people V So he took up a wooden mallet, — an instru-
ment which, although much larger resembles a hammer ,
and began beating the root, which he did fox some time
without making the least impression. Tommy, who
imagined that for this time his friend Harry was caught,
began to smile, and told him, < that he would break a hun-
dred mallets to pieces before he made the least impres-
sion upon the wood.' — * Say you so ?' answered Harry,
smiling ; • then I believe I must try another method :' so
he stooped down, and picked up a small piece of rough
iron, about six inches long, which Tommy had not ob-
served before, as t lay upon the ground. This iron
was broad at the top, but gradually sloped all the
way down, till it came to a perfect edge at the bottom
THE WEDGE. 23*7
Harry then took it up, and with a few blows drove it a
ittle way into the body of the root. The old man and
he then struck alternately with their mallets upon the
head of the iron, till the root began to gape and cnu*k
on every side, and the .ron was totally buried in the
wood.
1 There,' said Harry, * this first wedge has done its
business very well : two or three more will finish it.'
He then took up another larger wedge, and, inserting the
bottom of it between the wood and the top of the former
one, which was now completely buried in the root, be-
gan to beat upon it as he had done before. The root
now cracked and split on every side of the wedges, till
a prodigious cleft appeared quite down to the bottom.
Thus did Harry proceed, still continuing his blows, and
inserting new and larger wedges as fast as he had driven
the former down, till he had completely effected what he
had undertaken, and entirely separated the monstrous
mass of wood into two unequal parts.
Harry then said, « here is a very large log, but I think
you and I can carry it in to mend the fire: and I will
show you something else that will surprise you.' So he
took a pole about ten feet long, and hung the log upon it
by a piece of cord which he found there ; then he asked
Tommy which end of the pole he chose to carry ?
Tommy, who thought it would be most convenient to
have the weight near him, chose that end of *he pole
near which the weight was suspended, and put it upon
his shoulder, while Harry took the other end. Bui
when Tommy attempted to move, he found that he could
tardiy oear the pressure: however as he saw Ham
238 SANDFORD AND MERTCKN.
walk briskly away with his load, he determined not to
complain.
As they were walking in this manner, Mr. Barlow
met them, and seeing poor Tommy labouring under his
burthen, asked him who had loaded him in that manner!
Tommy said it was Harry. Upon this Mr. Barlow
smiled, and said, ' Well, Tommy, this is the first time
I ever saw your friend Harry attempt to impose upon
you ; but he is making you carry about three times the
weight .which he supports himself.' — Harry replied
'that Tommy had chosen that himself; and that he
should directly have informed him of his mistake, but
that he had been so surprised at seeing the common
effects of a lever, that he wished to teach him some other
facts about it ;' then, shifting the ends of the pole, so as
to support that part which Tommy had done before,
he asked him, * if he found his shoulder any thing easier
than before?' — Indeed I do,' replied Tommy, but I can
not conceive how ; for we carry the same weight be-
tween us which we did before, and just in the same
manner,.' — « Not quite in the same manner,' answered
Mr. Barlow ; for if you observe, the log is a great deal
farther from your shoulder than from Harry's by which
means he now supports just as much as you did before,
and you on the contrary, a3 little as he did when. I met
you.' — ' This is very extraordinary indeed,' said Tommy ;
I I find there are a great many things which I did no*
Know, nor even my mamma, nor any of the fine ladies
hat come to our house.' — * Well,' replied Mr. Barlow
•if you have acquired so mu",h useful knowledge al-
ready, what may you expect to do in a few years more ?
THE V.EDGE. 23P
Mr. Barlow then led Tommy into the house, anc
showed him a stick of about four feet long, with a
scale hung at each end. ' Now,' said he* * if you place
this stick over the back of a chair, so that it may reel
exactly upon the middle, you see the two scales will
just balance each other. So, if I put into each of
them an equal weight, they will still remain suspended
In this method we weigh every thing which is bought,
only, for the greater convenience, the beam of the
scale, which is the same thing as this stick, is gene-
rally hung up to something else by its middle. But
let us now move the stick, and see what will be the con-
sequence.' Mr. Barlow then pushed the stick along in
such a manner, that when it rested upon the back of
the chair, there were three feet of it on one side, and
only one on the other. That side which was longest in-
stantly came to the ground as heaviest. ' You see,' said
Mr, Barlow, ' if we would now balance them, we must
put a greater weight on the shortest side : so he kept
adding weights, till Tommy found that one pound on the
longest side would exactly balance three on the shortest ;
for, as much as the longer side exceeded the shorter in
length, so much did the weight which was hung at thai
end require to exceed that on the longest side.
• This,' said Mr. Barlow, ' is what they called a lever
and all the sticks that you have been using to-day are
only levers of a different construction By these short
trials, you may conceive the prodigious advantage which
they are of to men : for thus can one man move a
weight which half a dozen would not be able to do with
their hands alone : tlras may a little boy, like you, dc
240 SANDFORD AND MERTOH.
more than the strongest man could effect, who did no
Know these secrets. As to that instrument by which yoo
were so surprised that Harry could cleave such a vast
body of wood, it is called a wedge, and is almost equally
useful with the lever. The whole force of it consists it
its being gradually narrower and narrower, till at last it
ends in a thin edge, capable of penetrating the smallest
chink. By this we are enabled to overthrow the largest
oaks to cleave their roots, almost as hard as iron itself
and even to split the solid rocks.' — * All this,' saia
Tommy, < is wonderful indeed ; and I need not ask the
use of them, because I see it plainly in the experiments
I have made to-day.'
* One thing more,' added Mr Barlow, « as we are
upon this subject, I will show you.' So he led them
into the yard, to the bottom of his granary, where stood
a heavy sack of corn * Now,' said Mr Barlow, « if
you are so stout a fellow as you imagine, take up this
sack of corn, and carry it up the ladder into the
granary.' — * That,' replied Tommy laughing, ' is impos-
sible ; and I doubt, sir, whether you could do it your-
self.' — * Well,' said Mr. Barlow, ' we will at least try
what is to be done.' He then led them up into the
granary, and, showing them a middle-sized wheel, with
a handle fixed upon it, desired the little boys to turn
it round. They began to turn it with some little
difficulty, and Tommy could hardly believe his eyes,
when, presently after, he saw the sack of corn, which
he had despaired of moving, mounted up into the
granary, and safely landed upon the floor. — * You see,
said Mr. Barlow, ' here is another ingenious contri'
THE WHEEL. 241
irM^a, by which the weakest person may perform the
,voAi of the strongest. This is called the wheel and azu.
You see this wheel which is not very large, turns round
aiL axle which goes into it, and is much smaller ; and
at every turn the rope to which the weight is fixed thai
you want to move, is twisted round the axle. Now,
just as much as the breadth of the whole wheel is
greater than that of the axle which it turns round, so
much greater is the weight that the person who turns it
can move, than he could do without it-' — ' Well,* said
Tommy, 1 1 see it is a fine thing indeed to acquire know-
ledge, for by these means one not only increases one's
understanding, but one's bodily strength. But are there
no more, sir, of these ingenious contrivances ? for I
should like to understand them all.' — « Yes,' answered Mr.
Barlow, ' there are more, and all of them you shall be
perfectly acquainted with in time : but for this purpose
you should be able to write, and comprehend something
of arithmetic.
T. What is arithmetic, sir?
Mr. B. That is not so easy to make you understand
at once; I will, however, try to explain it. Do you
see the grains of wheat which lie scattered in the
window ?
T. Yes. sir.
Mr. B. Can you count how many there are 7
T. There are just five and twenty of them.
Mr. B. Very well. Here is another parcel : how
many grains are there?
T. Just fourteen.
Mr. B. If there are fourteen grains in one heap, aad
2J
242 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
twenty-five in the other, how many grains ?re there
in ail I or, how many do fourteen and twenty-hve
make ?
Tommy was unable to answer, and Mr. Barlow pro-
posed the same question to Harry, who answered, that,
together, they made thirty-nine— * Again,' said Mr.
Barlow, £ 1 will put the two heaps together, and thru
how many will there be?
T. Thirty-nine.
Mr: B. Now look, I have just taken away nineteen
from the number ; how many, do you think, remain '?
T. I will count them.
Mr. B. And cannot you tell without counting? How
many are there, Harry?
H. Twenty, sir.
Mr. B. All this is properly the art of arithmetic,
which is the same as that of counting, only it is done in
a, much shorter and easier way, without the trouble of
having the things always before you. Thus, for in-
stance, if you wanted to know how many barley-corns
were in this sack, you would perhaps be a week in
counting the whole number.
T. Indeed Ibelieva I should.
Mr. B. If you understood arithmetic you might do
it in five minutes.
T. That is extraordinary, indeed ; I can hardy con
ceive it possible.
Mr. B. A bushel of corn weighs about fifty pounds ;
this sack contains four bushels ; so that there are iusi
two hundred pounds weight in all. Now, every pound
contains sixtrwi ounces, and sixteen times two hundred
NUMBERS. 245
makes thirty-two hundred ounces. So that you have
nothing to do but to count the number of grains in a
single ounce, and there will be thirty-two hundred times
that number in the sack.
T. I declare this is curious indeed, and I should 1 ke
to learn arithmetic. Will Harry and you teach me,
sir?
Mr. B. You know we are always ready to improve
you. But, before we leave this subject, I must tell you
a little story. There was a gentleman who was ex-
tremely fond of beautiful horses, and did not grudge to
give the highest prices for them. One day a horse-
courser came to him, and showed him one so hand-
some, that he thought it superior to all he had ever
seen before. He mounted him, and found his paces
equally excellent; for, though he was full of spirit, he
was gentle and tractable as could be wished. So many
perfections delighted the gentleman, and he eagerly de-
manded the price. The horse-courser answered, that
he would bate nothing of two hundred guineas : the gen-
tleman, although he admired the horse, would ncn consent
to give it and they were just on the point of parting. As
the man was turning his back, the gentleman rolled out
to him, and said, ' Is there no possible way of oui
agreeing '? for I would give you any thing in reason for
such a beautiful creature.' ' Why,' replied the dealer
who was a shrewd fellow, and perfectly understood
calculation, ' if you do not like to give me two hundred
guineas, will you give me a farthing for the first nail
Jie horse has in his shoe, two farthings for the second,
four for the third, and so go doubling throughout th*
244 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
who!; twenty. four ? for there are no more than twenty
four nails in all his shoes.' The gentleman giadlj ac
cepted the condition, and ordered the horse to be Sec
away to his stables.
T. This fellow must have been a very great block-
head, to ask two hundred guineas, and then to take a
few farthings for his horse.
Mr. B. The gentleman was of the same opinion :
however, the horse-courser added, ' I do not mean, sir,
to tie "you down to this last proposal, which, upon con-
sideration, yon may like as little as the first ; all that I
require is, that if you are dissatisfied with your bargain,
you will promise to pay me down the two hundred
guineas which I first asked.' This the gentleman will-
ingly agreed to, and then called the steward to calculate
the sum, for he was too much of a gentleman to be
able to do it himself. The steward sat down with his
pen and ink, and, after some time, gravely wished his
master joy, and asked him * in what part of England
the estate was situated that he was going to purchase?'
' Are you mad?' replied the gentleman: 'it is not an
estate, but a horse, that I have just bargained for : and
here is the owner of him, to whom I am going to pay
the money.' — < If there is any madness, sir,' replied the
steward, < it certainly is not on my side : the su**i you
nave ordered me to calculate comes just to seventeen
(housand four hundred and seventy-six pounds, hesides
some shillings and pence ; and surely no man in his
senses would give this price for a horse.' The gentle-
nan was more surprised than he had ever been before, tc
h^ar the assertion of his steward ; but when, upon ex
ASTRONOMY. 245
•mination, ho found it no more than the truth, he was
\ery glad to compound for his foolish agreement, by
giving the horse-courser the two hundred guineas, anc
dismissing him.
T. This is quite incredible, that a farthing, just
doubled a few times, should amount to sucn a prodigious
sum ; however, I am determined to learn arithmetic,
hat I may not be imposed upon in this manner, for 1
think a gentleman must look very silly in such a
situation.
Thus had Tommy a new employment and diversion
for the winter nights — the learning arithmetic. Aimost
every night did Mr. Barlow, and Harry, and he, amuse
themselves with little questions that related to numbers ;
by which means Tommy became in a short time so ex-
pert, that he could add, subtract, and multiply, or divide,
almost any given sum, with little trouble and great ex-
actness. But he did not for this forget the employment
of observing the heavens, for every night when the stars
appeared bright, and the sky was unclouded, Harry and
he observed the various figures and positions of the con-
stellations. Mr. Barlow gave him a little paper globe,
as he had promised, and Tommy immediately marked
out upon the top his first and favourite constellation of
Charles's Wain. A little while after that, he observed
on the other side of the Pole-star, another assemblage
of stars, which was always opposite to Charles's Wain ;
this, Mr. Barlow told him, was called Cassiopeia's
Chair, and this, in a short time, was added to the col-
fiction.
One night, as Tommy was looking up to the sky, t E
"21*
iM6 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
'he southern part of the heavens he observed so remark
able a constellation, that he cculd not help particularl)
remarking it ; four large and shining stars composes
the ends of the figure, which was almost square anc!
full in the middle appeared three more, placed in a slant-
ing line and very near each other. This Tommy
pointed out to Mr. Barlow, and begged to know the
name. Mr. Barlow answered, that the constellation
was named Orion, and that the three bright stars in the
middle were called his belt. Tommy was so delighted
with the grandeur and beauty of this glorious constel-
lation, that he could not help observing it, by intervals
all the evening; and he was surprised to ^ee that it
seemed to pass on, in a right line drawn from East to
West, and that all the stars he had become acquainted
with, moved every night in the same direction.
But he did not forget to remind Harry, one morning
of the history he had promised to tell him of Agesilaus.
Harry told it in the following manner : —
History of Agesilaus.
The Spartans (as I ha/e before told you, mastei
Tommy) were a brave and hardy people, who despised
every thing that tended to make them delicate and luxu-
rious. All their .ime was spent in such exercises as
made them strong and active, able to bear fatigue, and
to despise wounds and danger ; for they were situated
in the midst of several other nations, that frequently had
quarrels with each other, and with them ; and therefore
it was necessary that they should learn to defend them-
THE SPAltTANS. 247
deives. Therefore all the children were brought up
ilike, and the sons of their kings themselves were as
little indulged as any body else.
T. Stop, stop ! — I don't exactly understand that. 1
tnought a king was a person that dressed finer, and had
less to do, than any body else in the world. 1 have
often heard my mamma and the ladies say, that I looked
like a prince when I had fine clothes on : and therefore
J thought that kings and princes never did any thing
but walk about with crowns upon their heads, and eat
sweetmeats, all day long.
H. I do not know how that may be, but in Sparta
the great business of the kings (for they had two) was
to command them when they went out to war, or when
they were attacked at home — and that, you know, they
could not do without being brave and hardy themselves.
Now it happened that the Spartans had some dear friends
and allies that lived at a distance from them, across the
sea, who were attacked by a great and numerous nation
called the Persians. So, when the Spartans knew the
danger of their friends, they sent over to their assistance
Agesilaus, one of their kings, together with a few thou-
sand of his countrymen, and these, they judged, would
be a match for all the forces that could be brought
against them by the Persians, though ever so numerous.
When the general of the Persians saw the small number
of his enemies, he imagined it would be an easy matter
to take them prisoners, or to destroy them. Besides, as
he was immensely rich, and possessed a number of
palaces, furnished vith every thing that was fine and
costiy, and had a great quantity of gold and silver, and
848
0ANOFORD AND MERTOft.
jewels, and slaves, he could not conceive it possible thaj
any body could resist him. He therefore raised a large
army, several times greater than that of the Spartans,
and attacked Agesilaus, who was not in the least afraid
oC him ; for the Spartans, joining their shields together,
and marching slowly along in even ranks, fell with so
much fury upon the Persians, that in an instant thev
put them to flight.
Here Tommy interrupted the story, to inquire what
a shield was. — ' Formerly,' answered Mr. Barlow, { be-
fore men were acquainted with the pernicious effects of
gunpowder, they were accustomed to combat close to-
gether, with swords or long spears, and for this reason
they covered themselves in a variety of ways, to defend
their bodies from the weapons of their enemies. The
shield was worn upon their left arm, and composed of
boards fixed together, and strengthened with the hides
of animals, and plates of iron, sufficiently long and
broad to cover almost the whole body of a man. When
they went out to battle, they placed themselves in even
rows or ranks, with their shields extended before them,
to secure them from the arrows and weapons of their
enemies. Upon their heads they wore a helmet, which
was a cap of iron or steel, ornamented with the waving
feathers of birds or the tails of horses. In this mar.-
ner, with an even pace, marching all at once, and ex-
tending their spears before them, they went forward to
meet their enemies. — ' I declare,' said Tommy, ■ such a
sight must have been prodigiously fine ; and when 1
have accidentally met with soldiers myself, I thought
Jhey made such a figure, walking erect, with their arms
THE SPARTANS. * *4&
nil glittering in the sun, that I have sometimes thought
I would be a soldier myself, whenever I grow big
enough.' — 'And have you considered,' inquired Mr
Barlow, ' what is the business, and generally the fate,
of a soldier V — ' No' said Tommy ; ' I know that he
mast fight sometimes : but what I thought so pleasant
was, to march up and down in a fine red coat, with
colours flying, and music playing, while all the ladies
are looking on, and smiling, and bowing ; for I have
heard a great many of them say they loved a soldier
above all things.' — ' Well,' said Mr. Barlow, ' I will pre-
sently endeavour to give you juster ideas of what com-
poses the life of a soldier ; let Harry now go on with
his story.'
' When Pharnabazus (for that was the name of the
Persian general) observed that his troops were never
able to stand against the Spartans, he sent to Agesilaus.
and requested that they might have a meeting, in order
to treat about terms of peace. This the Spartan con.
sented to, and appointed the time and place where he
would wait for Pharnabazus. When the day came,
Agesilaus arrived first at the place of meeting with the
Spartans: but, not seeing Pharnabazus, he sat down
upon the grass with his soldiers, and, as it was the hour
of the army's making their repast, they pulled out their
provisionsj which consisted of some coarse bread and
onions, and began eating very heartily. In the middle
of them sat King Agesilaus himself, in no wise distin-
guished from the rest, neither by his clothing nor his
fare : nor was there, in the whole army, an individual
who more exposed himself to every species of hardship
450 * SANDFORD AND MKRTOft.
or discovered less nicety than the king himself, by
which means he was beloved and reverenced by all the
soldiers, who were ashamed of appearing less brave 0/
patient than their general.
It was not long that the Spartans had thus reposed
before the first servants of Pharnabazus arrived, who
brought with them rich and costly carpets, which they
spread upon the ground for their master to recline upon.
Presently arrived another troop, who began to erect a
spacious tent, with silken hangings, to screen him an^
his train from the heat of the sun, After this came a
company of cooks and confectioners, with a great num-
ber of loaded horses, who carried upon their backs all
the materials of an elegant entertainment. Last of all
appeared Pharnabazus himself, glittering with gold and
jewels, and adorned with a long purple robe, after the
fashion of the East : he wore bracelets upon his arms,
and was mounted upon a beautiful horse, that was as
gaudily attired as himself.
As he approached nearer, and beheld the simp'.e man
ners of the Spartan king and his soldiers, he could not
help scoffing at their poverty, and making comparisons
between their mean appearance, and his own magnifi
cence. All that were with him seemed to be infinitely
diverted with the wit and acute remarks of their general,
except a single person, who had served in the Grecian
armies, and therefore was better acquainted with the
manners and discipline of these people. The man was
highly valued by Pharnabazus, for his understanding
and honesty, and, therefore, when he observed that he
said nothing, he insisted upon his declaring his sent)
THE SPARTANS. 251
rnents, as the rest had done. * Since then,' replied he.
1 you command me to speak my opinion, Pharnabazus,
1 must confess that the very circumstance, which is tne
cause of so much mirth to the gentleman that accom-
pany you, is the reason of my fears. On our side, in-
deed, I see gold, and jewels, and purple, in abundance,
but when I look for men, I can find nothing but barbers,
cooks, confectioners, fiddlers, dancers, and every thing
that is most unmanly and unfit for war ; on the Grecian
side, I discern none of the costly trifles, but I see iron
that forms their weapons, and composes impenetrable
arms. I see men who have been brought up to despise
every hardship, and face every danger : who are accus-
tomed to observe their ranks, to obey their leader, to
take every advantage of their enemy, and to fall dead
in their places, rather than to turn their backs. Were
the contest about who should dress a dinner, or curl
hair with the greatest nicety, 1 should not doubt that the
Persians would god \ the advantage : but when it is
necessary to contend in battle, where the prize is won
by hardiness and valour, I cannot help dreading men,
who are inured to wounds, and labours, and suffering ;
nor can I ever think that the Persian gold will be able
to resist the Grecian iron.'
Pharnazabus was so strucK with the truth and just-
ness of these remarks, that, from that very hour he de-
termined to contend no more with such invincible troops
but bent all his care towards making peace with the
Spartans, by which means he preserved himself and
country from destruction.
252 SANDFORD AND WERTON.
You see by this story,' said Mr. Barlow, ' that fine
ilothes are not always of the consequence you imagine,
since they are not able to give their wearers either more
strength or courage than they had before, nor to pre.
serve them from the attacks of those whose appearance
is more homely. But since you are so little acquaintec
with the business of a soldier, I must show you a little
more clearly in what it consists. Instead, therefore, of
all this pageantry, which seems so strongly to have
acted upon your mind, I must inform you that there i9
no human being exposed to suffer a greater degree of
hardship : he is often obliged to march whole days in
the most violent heat, or cold, or rain, and frequently
without victuals to eat, or clothes to cover him ; and
when he stops at night, the most that he can expect is a
miserable canvass tent to shelter him, which is pene-
trated in every pari by the wet, and a little straw to
keep his body from the damp, unwholesome earth.
Frequently he cannot meet with even this, and is obliged
to lie uncovered upon the ground, by which means he
contracts a thousand diseases, which are more fatal than
tne cannon and weapons of the enemy. Every hour he
is exposed to engage in combats at the hazard of losing
his limbs, of being crippled or mortally wounded. If he
gain the victory, he generally has only to begin again
and fight anew, till the war is over ; if he be beaten, he
may probably lose his life upon the spot, or be taken
prisoner by the enemy ; in which case he may languish
several months in a dreary prison, in want of all the
necessaries of life.'
'Alas !' said Harry, ' what a dreadful picture do you
THE S0LD1EK.
253
draw of the late of those brave men who suffer so much
to defend their country. Surely, those who employ
them should take care of them when they are sick, 01
wounded, or incapable of providing for themselves.'
So, indeed,' answered Mr. Barlow, ' they ought to
do : but rash and foolish men engage in wars, without
either justice or reason ; and when they are over, they
think nc more of the unhappy people who have served
them at so much loss to themselves.'
II. Why, sir, I have often thought, that, as all wars
consist in shedding blood and doing mischief to our
fellow-creatures, they seldom can be just.
Mr. B. You are indeed right there. Of all the
blood that has been shed since the beginning of the
world, to the present day, but very little, indeed, has
been owing to any cause that had either justice or com-
mon sense.
H. I then have thought (though I pity poor soldiers
extremely, and always give them something, if I have
any money in my pocket) that they draw these mischiefs
upon themselves, because they endeavour to kill and
destroy other people, and, therefore, if they suffer ths
same evils in return, they can hardly complain.
Mr. B. They cannot complain of the evils to which
they voluntarily expose themselves, but they may justly
complain of the ingratitude of the people for whom T hey
fight, and who take no care of them afterwards.
H. Indeed, sir, I think so. But I cannot conceive
why people must hire others to fight for them. If it is
necessary to fight, why not fight for themselves'? ;
should be ashamed to go to another boy and say to him
22
*54 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
1 Pray go and venture your life or limbs for me, that t
jiay stay at home and do nothing.''
T. What if the French were to come here, as they
said they were about to do, would you go out to figh
them yourself?
H. I have heard my father say that it was eveiy
man's duty to fight for his country, if it were attacked .
and if my father went out to fight, I would go out with
him. I would not willingly hurt any body, but if they
attempt to hurt me or my countrymen, we should do
right to defend ourselves; should we not, sir?
Mr. B. This is certainly a case where men have a
right to defend themselves : no man is bound to yielc
his life or property to another that has no right to tak>
it. Among those Grecians, whom you were talking of,
every man was a soldier, and always ready to defend
his country whenever it was attacked.
H. Pray, dear sir, read to master Tommy the story
of Leonidas, which gave me so much pleasure; I am
sure he will like to hear it.
Mr. Barlow accordingly read
The History of Leonidas, King of Sparta.
The king of Persia commanded a great extent of ter-
ritory, which was inhabited by many millions of people,
and not only abounded in all the necessaries of life, but
produced immense quantities of gold and silver, and
every other costly thing. Yet all this did not satis
thft haughty mind of Xerxes, who, at that time, pos-
sessed the empire of this country. He considered tha
LECNIDAS. 255
ihe Grecians, his neighbours, were fret, and refused tc
obey his Imperious orders, which he foolishly imagined
al! mankind should respect: he therefore determined to
-rake an expedition with a mighty army into Greece,
snd to conquer the country. For this reason he raised
such a prodigious army, that it was almost impossible
10 describe it : the number of men that composed it
seemed sufficient to conquer the whole world, and all
the forces the Grecians were able to raise, would
scarcely amount to a hundredth part. Nevertheless,
Ihe Grecians held public councils to consult about their
common safety, and they nobly determined, that as they
had hitherto lived free, so they would either maintain
their liberty, or bravely die in its defence.
In the mean time, Xerxes was continually marching
forward, and at length entered the territory of Greece.
The Grecians had not yet been able to assemble their
troops or make their preparations, and therefore they
were struck with consternation at the approach of such
an army as attended Xerxes. — Leonidas was at that
time king of Sparta ; and, when he considered the state
pf affairs, he saw one method alone by which the ruin
of his country, and all Greece could be prevented. — In
order to enter the more cultivated parts of this country,
it was necessary for the Persian army to march through
a very rough and mountainous district, called Thermo-
pylae. There was only one narrow road through all
ihese mountains, which it was possible for only a very
smal 1 number of men to defend for some time, againss
he most numerous army. Leonidas perceived, that
f a small number of resolute men would undertake te
956 SANDFORD AND ME&TON*
defend this passage, it would retard the march of the
whole Persian army, and give the Grecians time to col-
lect their troops, — but who would undertake so desperate
an enterprise, where there was scarcely any possibility
of escaping alive? For this reason, Leonidas deter-
mined to undertake the expedition himself, with such of
the Spartans as would voluntarily attend him ; and to
sacrifice his own life for the preservation of his country.
With this design he assembled the chief persons of
Sparta, and laid before them the necessity of defending
the pass of Thermopylae. They were equally convinced
of its importance, but knew not where to find a man of
such determined valour as to undertake it. ' Then/
said Leonidas, * since there is no more worthy man
ready to perform this service, I myself will undertake
it, with those who will voluntarily accompany me.'
They were struck with admiration at his proposal, and
praised the greatness of his mind, but set before him the
certain destruction which must attend him. 'All this,'
<aid Leonidas, ' I have already considered ■ but I am
determined to go, with the appearance indeed of defend-
ing the pass of Thermopylae, but in reality to die for the
liberty of Greece. Saying this, he instantly went out
of the assembly, and prepared for the expedition ; taking
with him about three hundred Spartans. Before he
went, he embraced his wife, who hung about him in
iears, as being well acquainted with the dangerous pur-
poses of his match : but he endeavoured to comfort her;
a*id told her, that a short life was well sacrificed to the
interests of his country, and that Spartan women should
be more careful about the glory than the safety of theii
LEONIDAS. 251
lusbands. He then kissed his infant children, and;
charging his wife to educate them in the same principles
he had lived in, went out of his house, to put himself at
the head of those brave men who were to accompany
him.
As they marched through the city, all the inhabitants
attended them with praises and acclamations : the young
women sang songs of triumph, and scattered flowers
before them : the youths were jealous of their glory,
and lamented that such a noble doom had not rather
fallen upon themselves ; while all their friends and re
lations seemed rather to exult in the immortal honou*
they were going to acquire, than to be dejected with the
apprehensions of their loss . and as they continued their
march through Greece, they were joined by various
bodies of their allies ; so that the number amounted to
about six thousand, when they took possession of the
straits of Thermopylae,
In a short time, Xerxes approached with his innu-
merable army, which was composed of various nations,
and armed in a thousand different manners, and, when
he had seen the small number of his enemies, he could
not believe that they really meant to oppose his passage :
but when he was told that this was surely their design,
he sent out a small detachment of his troops, and
ordered them to take those Grecians alive, and bring
them bound before him. The Persian's troops set out,
and attacked the Grecians with considerable fury : but
in an instant, they were routed, the greater part slain,
and the rest obliged to fly. Xerxes was enraged at this
misfortune, and ordered the combat to be renewed wit
32*
268 fANDFORD AND MERTON.
greater forces. The attack was renewed, but aiwayi
with the same success, although he sent the brave?!
troops in his whole army, Thus was this immense
army stopped in its career, and the pride of their mo-
narch humbled, by so inconsiderable a body of Grecians,
that they were not at first thought worthy of a serious
attack. At length, what Xerxes, with all his troops
was incapable of effecting, was performed by the
treachery of some of the Grecians who inhabited that
country. For a great reward they undertook to lead a
chosen body of the Persians across the mountains by a
secret path, with which they alone were acquainted.
Accordingly, the Persians set out in the night, and,
having passed over the mountains in safety, encamped
on the other side.
As soon as the day arose, Leonidas perceived that he
had been betrayed, and that he was surrounded by the
enemy ; nevertheless, with the same undaunted courage,
he took all necessary measures, and prepared for the
fate which he had long resolved to meet. After praising
and thanking the allies, for the bravery with which they
had behaved, he sent them all away to their respective
countries : many of the Spartans too he would have
dismissed under various pretences ; but they, who were
all determined rather to perish with their king, than to
return, refused to go. When he saw their resolution,
lie consented tha? they should stay with him, and share
n his fate. All day, therefore, he. remained quiet in
his camp, but when evening approached, he ordered
his troops to take some refreshment, and, smiling, told
hem * to dine like men who were to sup in anothej
LEONID IS. 259
world.' They then completely armed themselves, and
waited for the middle of the night, which Leonidas
judged most proper for the design he meditated ; he
saw that the Persians would never imagine it possible,
that such an insignificant body of men should think of
attacking their numerous forces ; he was therefore
determined, in the silence of the night, to break into
their camp, and endeavour, amid the terror and con-
fusion which would ensue, to surprise Xerxes himself.
About midnight, therefore, this determined body of
Grecians marched out, with Leonidas at their head.
They soon broke into the Persian camp, and put all to
flight that dared to oppose them. It is impossible to
describe the terror and confusion which ensued among
so many thousands, thus unexpectedly surprised. Still
the Grecians marched on in close impenetrable order,
overturning the tents, destroying all that dared to resist,
and driving that vast and mighty army like frightened
sheep before them. At length they came even to the
imperial tent of Xerxes ; and, had he not quitted it at
the first alarm, he would there have ended at once his
life and expedition. The Grecians in an instant put all
the guards to flight, and rushing upon the imperial
pavilion, violently overturned it, and trampled under
their feet all the costly furniture, and vessels of gold,
which were used by the monarchs of Persia.
But now the morning began to appear : and the Per.
sians, who had discovered the small number of their
assailants, surrounded them on every side, and, without
■taring to come to a close engagement, poured in rheir
iarts and missive weapons. The Grecians were wearied
200 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
even with the toils of conquest, and their body wa»
already considerably diminished : nevertheless, Leonidas,
who was yet alive, led on the intrepid few that yet
remained to a fresh attack ; again he rushed upon the
Persians, and pierced their thickest battalions as often
as he could reach them. But valour itself was vaiD
igainst such inequality of numbers: at every charge
the Grecian ranks grew thinner and thinner, till at
length they were all destroyed, without a single man
having quitted his post or turned his back upon the
enemy.
* Really,' said Tommy, when the history was finished,
' Leonidas was a brave man indeed. But what became
of Xerxes and his army after the death of this valiant
Spartan ? was he able to overcome the Grecians, or
did they repulse him V — » You are now able to read foi
yourself,' replied Mr. Barlow ; * and therefore, by ex-
amining the histories of those countries, you may be
informed of every thing you desire.'
And now the frost had continued for several weeks,
and Tommy had taken advantage of the evenings,
which generally proved clear and star-light, to improve
his knowledge of the heavens. He had already orna-
mented his paper globe with several of the most
remarkable constellations. Around the Pole-star, he
had discovered Perseus and Andromeda, and Cepheus
and Cassiopeia's chair. Between these and the bright
Orion, which rose every night and glittered in the
South, he discovered seven small stars that were set in
a cluster, and called the Pleiades. Then, underneath
THE STARS. 26 i
Orion, he discovered another glittering star, called
Sirius, or the Dog-star. All these, he continually ob-
served, journeyed every night from east to west, and
then appeared, the evening after, in their former places.'
1 How strange it is,' observed Tommy, one day to Mr.
Barlow, * that all these stars should be continually
turning about the earth !' — * How do you know,' replied
Mr. Barlow, ' that they turn at all V
T. Because I see them move every night.
Mr. B. But, how are you sure that it is the stars
which move every night, and not the earth itself?
Tommy considered and said, ' But then I should see
*he earth move, and the stars stand still.'
Mr. B. What, did you never ride in a coach ?
T Yes, sir, very often.
Mr. B. And did you then see that the coach moved,
as you sat still and went along a level road 1
T. No, sir, I protest I have often thought that th^
houses and trees, and all the country, glided swiftly
along by the windows of the coach.
Mr. B. And did you never sail in a boat .
T. Yes, I have ; and I protest, T have observed the
same thing : for 1 remember, I have often thought the
shore was running away from the boat, instead of the
boat from the shore.
Mr. B. If that is the case, it is possible, even though
the earth should move, instead of the stars, that you
might only see wha; you do at present, and imagine
that the earth you are upon was at rest.
T. Buf is it not more likely, that such little .hing
202 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
as the stars and sun should move, than such a iaiye
thmg as the earth ?
Mr. B. And how do you know that the stais ann
sun are so small.
T. I see them to be so, sir. The stars are so 3ma4
that they are hardly to be seen at all ; and the sun it-
self, which is much larger, does not seeem bigger than
a small round table.
The day after this conversation, as the weather war*
bright and clear, Mr. Barlow went out to walk with
Harry and Tommy. As, by this time, Tommy was
inured to fatigue, and able to walk many miles, they
continued their excursion over the hills, till at last they
came in sight of the sea. As they were diverting them-
selves with the immense prospect of water that was be-
fore them, Mr. Barlow perceived something floating at a
distance, so small as to be scarcely discernible by the
eye. He pointed it out to Tommy, who with some diffi-
culty was able to distinguish it, and asked him what he
thought it was ?
Tommy answered that he imagined it to be some little
fishing boat, but he could not well tell, on account of the
distance.
Mr. B. If you do not then see a ship, what is it
you do see? or what does that object appear to your
eyes?
T. All that 1 can see, is no more than a little
dusky speck, which seems to grow bigger and bigger.
Mr. B. And what is the reason it grows biggei
and bigger ?
T. Because it comes nearer and nearer to me.
DISTANCE. 20S
Mj . B. vVhat, then dues the same thing sometimes
ippeai small and sometimes great ?
T. Yes, sir, it seems small when it is ai a great dis-
tance, for 1 have observed even houses and churches
when you are at some miles distance, seem to the eye
very small indeed : and now I observe that the vessel is
sailing towards us, and is not, as I imagined, a little fish-
ing-boat, but a ship with a mast, for I begin to distin-
guish the sails.
Mr. Barlow walked on a little while by the side of the
sea, and presently Tommy called out again ; ' I protest
I was mistaken again ; for it is not a vessel with one
mast, as I thought a little while ago, but a fine large
ship, with three great masts, and all her sails before the
wind. I believe she must either be a large merchant-
man or else a frigate.'
Mr. B. Will you then take notice of what you have
now been saying 7 What was first only a little dusky
speck, became a vessel with one mast, and now this ves-
3el with one mast plainly appears a ship of a very large
size, with all her masts, and sails, and rigging complete.
Yet all these three apperances are only the same object,
at different distances foom your eye.
T. Yes, sir, that is all very true, indeed.
Mr. B. Why, then, if the ship, which is now full in
sight, were to tack about again, and sail away from us
as fast as she approached just now, what do you think
would happen?
T. It would grow less and less every minute till 'I
appeared a speck again. -
864 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
Mr. B. You said, I think, tnat the sun was ft »try
small body, not bigger than a round table ?
T. Yes, sir.
Mr. B. Supposing, then, the sun were to be re-
moved to a much greater distance than it is now, what
would happen ? Would it appear the same to your eyes 1
Tommy considered for some time, and then said, ' Tr*
the ship grows less and less, till at last it appears a mere
speck, by going farther and farther, I should think the
sun would do the same.'
Mr. B. There you are pefectly right : therefore if
the sun were to depart farther and farther from us at
last it would appear no bigger than one of those twink-
ling stars that you see at so great a distance above
your head.
T. That I perfectly comprehend.
Mr. B. But if, on the contrary, one of those twink-
ling stars were to approach nearer and nearer to where
you stand, what do you think would happen 1 Would
It still appear of the same size ?
T. No, sir. The ship as it come nearer to us,
appeared every moment larger, and therefore I think
the star must do the same.
Mr. B. Might it not then at last appear as big as the
sun now does ; just as the sun would dwindle away to
the size of a star, were it to be removed to a still greater
distance ?
T. Indeed I think it might.
Mr. B. What, then, do you imagine must happen,
could the sun approach a great deal nearer to us 1
Would its size remain the same ?
THE SHIP. 265
T. No ; I plainly see that it must appear bigger ano
bigger, the nearer it comes.
Mr. B. If that is the case, it is not so very certain
that the earth we inhabit is bigger than the sun and
stars. They are at a very great distance from us:
therefore, if any body could go from the earth towards
the sun, how do you think the earth would appear to him
as he journeyed on ?
T. Really, I can hardly tell.
Mr. B. No ! Why, is it not the same thing whether
an object go/.* from you, or you from the object ? Is
there any difference between the ship's sailing away
from us, and our walking away from the ship 1
T. No, sir.
Mr. B. Did you not say, that if the sun could be
removed farther from our eyes, it would appear less ?
T. To be sure it would.
Mr. B. Why, then, if the earth were to sink down
from under our feet, lower and lower, what would hap-
pen ? Would it have the same appearance ?
T. No, sir ; I think it must appear less and less, like
the ship when it is sailing away.
Mr. B. Very right, indeed. — But now attend to what
I asked you just now. If a person oould rise slowly
into the air, and mount still higher and higher, towardi
the sun, what would happen ?
T. Why, the same as if the earth were to sink from
under us : it would appear less and less.
Mr. B. Might not the earth then at least appear ai
■mall as the sun or moon does ?
28
Mtt) SANDFORD AND MERTON.
T I can hardly conceive that, and yet I see it
would appear less and less the farther he went.
Mr. B. Do you remember what happened to you
when ) ou left r he island of Jamaica ?
T. Yes. I do. One of the blacks held me upon thw
deck, and then I looked toward the island, and 1 thought
that it began to move away from the ship, though, in
reality, it was the ship moving away from the land : and
then, as the ship continued sailing along the water, the
island appeared less and less. First, I lost sight of the
trees and houses that stood upon the shore ; and then 1
could only see the highest mountains ; and then I could
scarcely see the mountains themselves ; and, at last, the
whole island appeared only like a dark mist above the
water; and then the mist itself disappeared, and I could
see nothing but a vast extent of water all round, and the
sky above.
Mr. B. And must not this be exactly the case if you
could rise up into the air, higher and higher, and look
down upon the earth 1
T. Indeed it must.
Mr. B. Now, then, you will be able to answer the
question I asked you a little while ago : Could a person
travel straight forward from the earth to the sun, how
would they both appear to him as he went forward ?
T. The earth would appear less and less as he weMt
from it, and the sun bigger and bigger.
Mr. B. Why, then, perhaps it would happen at last,
that the sun appeared bigger than the earth
T. Indeed it might.
Mr. B. Then you see that you must no longer tal*
DI8TAMCB. 26?
of the earth's being large, and the sun small, since that
may only happen because you are near the one, and at
a great distance from the other. At least, you must
now be convinced that both the sun and stars must be
mmensely bigger than you would at first sight guess
chem to be.
As they were returning home, they happened to pass
through a small town in their way, and saw a crowd of
people going into a house, which gave Mr. Barlow the
curiosity to inquire the reason. They were told that
there was a wonderful person there, who performed a
variety of strange and diverting experiments. On
Tommy's expressing a great desire to see these curious
exhibitions, Mr. Barlow took them both in, and they all
seated themselves among the audience.
Presently the performer began his exhibitions, which
very much diverted Tommy, and surprised the specta-
tors. At length, after a variety of curious tricks upon
cards, the conjurer desired them to observe a large
basin of water, with the figure of a little swan floating
upon the surface. ' Gentlemen,' said the man, ' I have
reserved this curious experiment for the last, because it
is the most wonderful of all I have to show, or that,
perhaps, was ever exhibited to the present hour. You
see that swan, i f . is no more than a little image, without
either sense or life. If you have any doubt upon the
subject, take it up in your hands and examine it.'—
Accordingly, several of the spectators took it up in their
hands, and, after having examined it, set it down again
upon the water. ' Now,' continued he, * this swan,
•vhich to you appears totally without sense or motion, if
268 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
of so extraordinary a nature that he knows hh*, hi*
master, and will follow in any direction that I com-
mand.' Saying this, he took a little piece of bread, and,
whistling to his bird, ordered him to come to the side
of the basin and be fed. Immediately, to me great
surprise of all the company, the swan turned about and
swam to the side of the basin. The man whistled
again, and presently the swan turned himself round, and
pursued the hand of his master to the other side of the
basin.
The spectators could hardly believe their eyes, and
some of them got little pieces of bread, and held them
out, imagining that he would do the same to them.
But it was in vain they whistled and presented their
bread ; the bird remained unmoved upon the water, and
obeyed no orders but those of his master.
When this exhibition had been repeated over and
over again, to the extreme delight and astonishment
of all present, the company rose and dispersed, and
Mr. Barlow and the little boys pursued their way
home.
But Tommy's mind was so engaged with what he
had seen, that for several days he could think and talk
of nothing else. He would give all that he had in the
world to find out this curious trick, and to be possessed
of such a swan. At length, as he was one day talking
to Harry, upon the subject, Harry told him, with a
■mile, that he believed he had found out a method of
doing it, and that, if he did not mistake, he would the
next day show him a swan that would come to be fed as
«rell as the conjuror's. Accordingly, Harry moulded •
THE SWAN. 269
ml of wax into the shape of a swan, anc placed it upon
a basin of water. He then presented to it a piece of
bread, and, to the inexpressible delight of Tommy, the
wan pursued the bread, just as he had seen before.
After he had several times diverted himself with this
experiment, he wanted to be informed of the composition
of this wonderful swan. Harry therefore showed him,
within the body of the bird, a large needle, which lay
across it from one end to the other. In the bread with
which the swan was fed, he also showed him concealed
a small bar of iron. Tommy could not comprehend all
this, although he saw it before his eyes ; but Mr. Bar-
low, who was present, taking up the bar of iron, and
putting down several needles upon the table, Tommy
was infinitely surprised to see the needles all jump up
one after another, at the approach of the bar, and shoot
towards it, as if they had been possessed of life and
sense. They then hung all about the bar so firmly,
that, though it was lifted into the air, they all remained
suspended, nor ever quitted their hold. Mr. Barlow
then placed a key upon the -table, and putting the iron
near it, the key attached itself as firmly to the bar as
the needles had done before. All this appeared so sur-
prising to Tommy, that he begged an explanation of it
from Mr. Barlow. That gent'aman told him, * that there
was a stone often found in iron mines, that was called
the loadstone. This stone is naturally possessed of the
sin prising power of drawing to itself all pieces of iron
that are not too large, nor placed at too great a dis
.ance. But what is equally extraordinary is, that iror
itself, after having been rubbed upon the loadstone
23*
270 SANDFOI.O AND MERTON
acquires the same virtue as the stone itself, of attracting
other iron. For this purpose they take small bars of
iron, and rub them carefully upon the loadstone, and
when they have acquired this very extraordinary power
they call them magnets. vVhen Harry had seen the
exhibition of the swan, upon revolving it over in his
mind, he began to suspect that it was performed entirely
by the power of magnetism. Upon his talking to me
about the afFair, I confirmed him in his opinion, and
furnished him with a small magnet to put mio the
bread, and a large needle to conceal in the body of the
bird. So this is the explanation of the feat which so
much puzzled you a few days past.'
Mr. Barlow had scarcely done speaking, when Tom-
my observed another curious property of the swan,
which he had not found out before. This bird, when
left to itself, constantly rested in one particular direc-
tion, and that direction was full North and South.
Tommy inquired !he reason of this, and Mr. Barlow
gave him this additional explanation: — 'The persons
who first discovered the wonderful powers of the load-
stone in communicating its virtues to iron, diverted them-
selves, as we do now, in touching needles and small
pieces of iron, which they made to float upon water, and
attracted them about with other pieces of iron. But it
was not long before they found out, as you do now, an-
other surprising property of this wonderful stone ' they
observed, that when a needle had once been touched by
ihe loadstone, if it was left to float upon the water with-
out restraint, it would invariably turn itself towards the
No'th. In a short time they improved the discoverv
THE MAGNET. 271
larther, and contrived to suspend the middle of the needle
upon a point, so loosely that it could mo\ e about in every
direction ; tnis they covered with a glass case, and by
this means they always had it in their power to find out
all the quarters of the heavens and earth.'
T. Was this discovery of any great use ?
Mr. B. Before this time they had no other method
of finding their way along the sea, but by observing the
stars. They knew, by experience, in what part of the
sky certain stars appeared at every season of the year,
and this enabled them to discover East, West, North,
and South. But when they set out from their own coun-
try by sea, they knew in which direction the place was
situated which they were going to. If it lay to the East,
they had only to keep the head of the ship turned full
to that quarter of the heavens, and they would arrive at
the piace they were going to ; and this they were enabled
to do by observing the stars. But frequently the weather
was thick, and the stars no longer appeared, and then
they were left to wander about the pathless ocean with-
out the smallest track to guide them in their course.
T. Poor people ! they must be in a dreadful situation
indeed, tost about on such an immense place as the sea,
in the middle of a dark night, and not able even to guess
at their situation.
Mr. B. For this reason they seldom dared to venture
out of sight of shore, for fear rf losing their way, by
which means all their voyages were long and tedious
for they were obliged to make them several times as long
as they would have done, could they have taken the
straight and nearest way. But soon after the discovers
272 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
of this admirable property of the loadstone, they found
that the needle, which had been thus prepared, was ca-
pabh of shewing them the different points of the heavens
even in the darkest night. This enabled them to sail
with greater security, and to venture boldly upon thf
immense ocean, which they nad always feared before.
T. How extraordinary that a little stone should en-
able people to cross the sea, and to find their way from
one country to the other ! But I wonder why they take
all these pains.
Mr. B. That you need not wonder at, when you
consider that one country frequently produces what an-
other does not : and therefore, by exchanging their dif-
ferent commodities, both may live more conveniently
than they did before.
H. But does not almost every country produce all
that is necessary to support the inhabitants of it? and
therefore they might live, I should think, even though
they received nothing from any other country.
Mr. B. So might your father live, perhaps, upon the
productions of his own farm, but he sometimes sells his
cattle, to purchase clothes ; sometimes his corn, to pur-
chase cattle. Then he frequently exchanges with his
neighbours one kind of grain for another, and thus their
mutual conveniency is better promoted than if each were
to confine himself to the produce of his own land. At
the same time it is true, that every country which is in-
habited by men, contains, within itself all that is neces-
sary for their subsistence, and what they bring from
other countries is frequently more hurtful than salutary
to ftiem.
PRODUCE. 378
H. I have heard you say, that even in Greenland.
the coldest and most uncomfortable country in the world,
the inhabitants procure themselves necessaries, and live
contented.
T. What, is there a part of the world still coldei
than Lapland ?
Mr. B. Greenland is still farther north, and there-
fore colder and more barren. The ground is there
covered with eternal snows, which never melt, even in
the summer. There are scarcely any animals to be
found, excepting bears, that live by preying upon fish.
There are no trees growing upon any part of the coun-
try, so that the inhabitants have nothing to build their
houses with, excepting the planks and trees which the
sea washes away from other countries, and leaves upon
their coast. With these they erect large cabins, where
several families live together. The sides of the huts
are composed of earth and stones, and the top secured
with turf: in a short time the whole is so cemented with
frost, that it is impenetrable to the weather during the
whole winter. Along the sides of the building are made
several partitions, in each of which a Green lander lives
with his family. Each of these families have a small
lamp continually burning before them, by means of which
they cook their food and light themselves, and, what is
equally necessary in so cold a country, keep up an agree-
able warmth throughout their apartment. They have a
few deer, which sometimes visit them in the summer, and
which the Greenlanders kill whenever they can catch
them ; but they are almost entirely destitute of all the
vegetables which serve as nourishment to man, so *hat
274 SANDFORD AND MERTOIS
!hcy are obliged to be continually upon the sea, in ordei
to catch fish for their maintenance.
T. What a dreadful life that must be in a country
which is so cold !
Mr. B. In consequence of that extreme cold, those
northern seas are full of such immense quantities of ice,
that they are sometimes almost covered with them. Huge
pieces come floating down, which are not only as big as
the largest houses, but even resemble small mountains.
These are sometimes dashed against each other by the
winds, with such immense force, that they would crush
the strongest ship to pieces, and with a noise that exceeds
the report of a cannon. Upon these pieces of ice are
frequently seen white bears of an enormous size, which
have either fallen asleep upon them, and so been carried
away, or have straggled over those icy hills in search oj
fish.
T. And is it possible that the inhabitants of such a
country can find enough in it for all their necessities ?
Mr. B. The necessities of life are very few, and are
therefore to be found even in the most rugged climates,
if men are not wanting to themselves, or deficient in in-
dustry. In plentiful countries like this, and in most of
the more temperate climates, great numbers are main-
tained in idleness, and imagine that they were only born
to live upon the labour of others; but in such a country
as Greenland is described to be, it requires continual ex
ertion to procure the simplest support of human life ;
and therefore no one can live at all who will not employ
himself in the same manner as his neighbours.
T. You said that these people had neither flesh no'
TH4 SEAL. 275
?orn : do the) then clothe themselves with the skins of
tish, as well as live upon them ?
Mr. B. There is in those seas a peculiar species of
animal called a seal. He is nine or ten feet long, and
has two small feet before, on which he is able to walk e
little upon the shore, for he frequently comes out of the
sea, and sleeps, or amuses himself upon the land or ice
His body is very large, and full of oil, and behind he
has two legs, which resemble fins, with which he swims
in the water. This animal is the constant prey of the
Greenlander, and furnishes him with all he wants. The
flesh he eats, the fat serves to feed his lamp, which is
almost as necessary as food itself in that cold climate.
With the skin he makes clothes that are impenetrable to
the water, or lines the inside of his hut to keep out the
weather. As this animal is so necessary to the exist-
ence of a Greenlander, it is his greatest glorv to chase
<md take him. For this purpose he places himself in a
small narrow boat, the top of which is covered over
with the skins of seals, and closes round the middle of
the fisher so tight as entirely to exclude the water. He
has a long oar, or paddle, broad at both ends, which he
dips first on one side, then on the other, and rows along
with incredible swiftness over the roughes* seas. He
carries with him a harpoon, which is a kind of a lance
o** javelin, tied to a long thong, at the end of which is
fixed a bladder, or some other light thing that sinks with
difficulty. When the fisherman is thus prepared, he
skims lightly along the waters, tii! he perceives at a dis-
tance one of these animals floating upon the surface.
The Greenlander then approaches him as softlv as he ia
376 SANDFCRD AND MERTON.
able, and, if possible, contrives that the animal shall hav«
the wind and sun in his eyes. When he is sufficienth
near he throws his harpoon, and generally wounds the
creature, in which case he instantly hurries away, and
carries with him the thong and bladder. But it is not
hng before he is compelled to rise again to the surface
of the water to breathe: and then the Greenlander, whc
has been pursuing him all the time, attacks him anew,
and dispatches him with a shorter lance, which he has
brought with him fo; that purpose. He then ties his
prey to his boat, and tows it after him to his family, who
receive it with joy, and dress it for their supper. Al-
though these poor people live a life of such continual
fatigue, and are obliged to earn th^ir (bod with so much
hardship, they are generous and hospitable in the man-
agement of it, for there is not a person present but is in-
vited to partake of the feast ; and a Greenlander would
think himself dishonoured for life, if he should dc thought
capable of wishing to keep it all to himself.
T. I think it seems as if the less people had the more
generous they are with it.
Mr. B. That is not unfrequently the case, and should
be a lesson to many of our rich at home, who ima-
gine tjjey have nothing to do with their fortune but i>
throw it away upon their pleasures, while there are so
many thousands in want of the common necessaries
of life.
T. But pray, sir, have you no more particulars to
tell me about these Greenlanders, for I think it is the
most curious account I ever heard in ny life.
Mr B. There is another very curious particulai
THE W . r.. 277
indeed to be mentioned of these countries ; in these seas
is found the largest animal in the world, an immense
fisn, which is called the whale
T. Oh dear ! I have heard of that extraordinary
animal. And pray, sir, do the Greenlandersever catch
them?
Mr. B. The whale is of such a prodigious size,
that he sometime? reaches seventy or eighty, or even more
than a hundred feet in length. He is from ten to above
twenty feet in height, and every way large in propor-
tion. When he swims along the seas, he appears rather
like a large vessel floating upon the waters than a fish.
He has two holes in his head, through which he blows
out water to a great height in the air, immense fins, and
a tail with which he almost raises a tempest when he
lashes the sea with it. Would you not believe that such
an animal was the most dreadful of the whole brute
creation ?
T. Indeed, sir, I should ! I should think that such
a fish would overset whole ships, and devour the sailors.
Mr. B. Far from it ; it is one of the most innocent
in respect to man that the ocean produces, nor does he
ever do him the least hurt, unless by accidentally over-
turning vessels with his enormous bulk. The food he
lives upon is chiefly small fish, and particularly herrings.
These fish are bred in such prodigious shoals amid the
ice of those northern climates, that the sea is absolutely
covered with them for miles together. Then it is tha?
the hungry whale pursues them, and thins their numbers
bv swallo-' ng thousands of them in their course.
24
878 SANDFORD AND MERTOlN.
12. What numbers of them must such a prodigious
fish devour of these small animals !
Mr. B. The whale, in his turn, falls a prey to the
cruelty and avarice of man. Some indeed are caught
by the Greenlanders, who have a sufficient excuse for
r>crsecuting him with continual attacks, in their total
want of vegetables, and every species of food which the
earth affords. But the Europeans, who are too nice and
squeamish to eat his flesh, send out great numbers of ships,
every year, to destroy the poor whale, merely for the sake
of oil which his body contains, and the elastic bones which
are known by the name of whalebone, and applied to
several purposes. When those who go upon this dan-
gerous expedition discern a whale floating at a distance,
they instantly send out a large boat to pursue him.
3ome of the men row along as gently as possible, while
the person that is appointed to attack the fish stands
upon the fore part of the boat, holding in his hand a
sharp harpoon, with which he is prepared to wound his
prey. This is fastened to a long cord which lies ready
coiled up in the boat,so that they may let it out in an in-
stant, when the fish is struck ; for such is his prodigious
force, that should the least impediment occur to stop the
rope in its passage he would instantly draw trie boat
after him down to the bottom of the sea. In order to
prevent these dangerous accidents, a man stands con-
stantly r*,ady to divide the rope with a hatchet, in case
it should happen to tangle ; and another is continually
pouring water over it for fear the swiftness of the motion
should make it take fire The poor whale being thus
bounded, darts away with inconceivable rapidity, an* 1
WHALE FISHING. 278»
generally plunges to the bottom of the sen. The met
have a prodigious quantity of cord ready to let out, and
when their store is exhausted, there are generally othe.
boats ready to supply more. Thus is the poor animal
overpowered and killed in spite of his immense bulk
and irresistible strength : for gradually wearied with his
own efforts, and the loss of blood, he soon relaxes in
his speed, and rises again to the top of the water. Then
it is that the fishers, who have pursued him all the time
with the hopes of such an opportunity, approach him
anew, and attack him with fresh harpoons, till in the end
his strength is entirely exhausted, the waves themselves
are tinged with a bloody colour from his innumerable
wounds, and he writhes himself about in strong convul-
sions and unutterable pain. Then the conflict is soon
at an end ; in a short time he breathes his last; and,
turning upon his back, floats like some large vessel upon
the surface of the sea. The fishers then approach, and
cut off the fins, and other valuable parts, which they
stow on board their ships ; the fat, or blubber, as it is
often called, is received into large hogsheads, and when
boiled, to purify it, composes the common oil, which is
applied to so many useful purposes. The remains of
this vast body are left a prey to other fish and to the
Greenlanders, who carfully collect every fragment
which they can find, and apply it to their own use.
Sometimes they go to pursue the whale themselves, but
when they do, it is in large numbers, and they attack
nim nearly in the same manner with the Europeans
only, as they are not so well supplied with cord, they
fix the skins of seals., which they have inflated with air
280 SANDFOKD AND MERTON
to the end of the thongs which are tied to their harpoot *,
and this serves both to weary out the fish, who drags
them with hirn under the water, and to discover him the
instant he approaches to the surface.
H. I cannot help pitying the poor whale that is thus
persecuted for the sake of his spoils. Why cannot man
iet this poor beast live unmolested in the midst of the
snows and ice in which he was born?
Mr. B. You ought to knaw enough of the world to
be sensible that the desire of gain will tempt men upon
every expedition. However, in this case you must
consider that the whale himself is continually supported
by murdering thousands of herrings and other small
fish : so that, were they possessed of reason, they would
welcome the Europeans, who came to destroy their
enemies, as friends and benefactors.
T. But pray, sir, how do the little boys amuse them-
selves in such a dismal country ? Do their fathers take
them out a fishing with them ?
Mr. B. When the men come home all covered with
wet and icicles, and set down comfortably in their huts
to feast upon the prey, their common conversation is
about the dangers and accidents they have met with in
their expedition. A Greenlander relates how he bounded
over the waves to surprise the monstrous seal; how he
pierced the animal with his harpoon, who had nearly
dragged the boat with him under the water ; how he
attacked him again in closer combat ; how the beast,
enraged with his wounds, rushed upon him in order to
aestroy him with his teeth , and how, in the end. by
courage and perseverance he triumphed over his ad
THE GREENLANDERS. 28j
••ersary. and brought him safe to land. All this will n"
•elate with the vehemence and interest which peopie
laturally feel for things which concern them nearly :
ne stands in the midst of his countrymen, and describes
3^ery minute circumstance of his adventures; the little
children gather round, and greedily catch the relation
they feel themselves interested in every circumstanca
they hear, and wish to share in the toils and glory o:
their fathers. When they are a little bigger they ex
ercise themselves in small skiffs, with which they lean.
to overcome the waves. Nothing can be more dan-
gerous, or require greater dexterity than the manage-
ment of a Greenlander's boat. The least thing will
overset it, and then, the mar who cannot disengage
himself from the boat, which is fastened to his middle,
sinks down below the waves, and is inevitably drowned
if he cannot, regain his balance. The only hope of
doing this, is placed in the proper application of his oar,
and, therefore, the dexterous management of this imple-
ment forms the early study of the young Greenlanders.
In their sportive parties, they row about in a thousand
different manners. They dive under their boats, and
then set them to rights with their paddle ; they learn to
glide over the roughest billows, and face the greatest
dangers with intrepidity, till, in the tnJ, they acquire
sufficient strength and address to fish for themselves,
^nd to be admitted into the class of men.
H. Pray, sir, is this the country where men trave'
about upon sledges that are drawn by dogs ?
T. Upon sledges drawn by dogs? that must be drc^
24*
282 SANPFORD AND MERT^N.
indeed. I had no idea that d^gs could ever draw cai
riages.
Mr. B. The country you are speaking of is caiie
Kamtschatka ; it is indeed a cold and dreary country
but very distant from Greenland. The inhabitants
there train up large dogs, which they harness to a
sledge, upon which the master sits, ~ud so performs
his journey along the snow and ice. All the summer,
the Kamtschatkans turn their dogs loose to shift for
themselves, and prey upon the remains of fish, which
they find upon the shore or the banks of the rivers, (for
fish is the common food of all the inhabitants) ; in the
winter they assemble their dogs and use them for the
purposes I have mentioned. They have no reins to
govern the dogs, or stop them in their course, but the
driver sits upon his sledge, and keeps himself as steady
as he is able, holding in his hand a short stick, which he
throws at the dogs if they displease him, and catches
again with great dexterity as he passes. This way of
travelling is not without danger, for tho temper of the
dogs is such, that when they descend hills and slippery
places, and pass through woods where the driver is
exposed to wound himself with the branches and stumps,
they always quicken their paco. The same is observed
in case their master should fall off, which they instantH
discover by the sudden lightness of the carriage, for then
they set off at such a rate, that it is difficult to overtake
them. The only way which the Kamtschatkao finds, is
to throw himself at his length upon the ground, and lay
hold on the empty sledge, suffering himself to be thu*
iragged aloug the earth, till the chgs, through wear
KAMTSCHATKA. 293
oess, »H?ue .xic'r speed. Frequently in their journeys
these travellers are surprised by unexpected storms, of
wind and snow, which render it impracticable to proceed
farther. How ill would an European fare, to be thu*
abandoned, at the distance perhaps of a hundred milea
nr more, from any habitable place, exposed, without
shelter, in the midst of extensive plains, and unable to
procure either wood or fire. But the hardy native of
these cold climates, inured from his infancy to support
difficulties, and almost superior to the elements, seeks
the shelter of the first forest he can find : then, wrap-
ping himself round in his warm fur garment, he sits
with his legs under him, and, thus bundled up, suffers
himself to be covered round with snow, except a small
hole which he leaves for the convenience of breathing.
In th.s manner he lies, with his dogs around him, whc
assist in keeping him warm, sometimes for several
days, till the storm is past, and the roads again become
passable, so that he may be able to pursue his journey
again.
T. I could not have conceived it possible that men
should be able to struggle with so many hardships. But
do not the poor people who inhabit these cold climates
quit them, whenever they can find an opportunity, and
come to settle in those that are warmer '?
Mr. B. Not in the least. When they hear that there
are no seals to be caught in other countries, they say
that they must be wretched indeed, and much inferior
to their own. Besides, they have in general so great a
contempt for all Europeans, that they have no inclin*
tion to vis t the countries which thev inhabit.
^84 SANDFORD AND MEHTON.
T. How can that be ? How can a parcel of wretchej
ignorant savages, despise men that are so much supe-
rior to themselves ?
Mr. B. This is not what they are quite so well con-
vinced of. The Greenlanders, for instance, see that the
Europeans who visit them are much inferior to them
pelves in the art of managing a boat or catching seals
in short, in every thing which they find most useful to
support Ufe. For this reason, they consider them all
with very great contempt, and look upon them as little
«*etter than barbarians.
T. That is a very impertinent indeed ; and I should
l '\ke to convince them of their folly.
Mr. B. Why, do you not look upon yourself as much
superior to your black servants ; and have I not often
heard you express great contempt for them.
T, I do not despise them now, so much as I used tc
do. Besides, sir, I only think myself something better,
because I have been brought up like a gentleman.
Mr. B. A gentleman ! I have never exactly under-
stood what a gentleman is, according to your notions.
T. Why, sir, when a person is not brought up to
work, and has several people to wait upon him, like
my father and mother ; then he is a gentleman.
Mr. B. And then he has a right to despise othem,
bas he?
T. I do not say that, sir, neither. But he is, how-
ever, superior to them.
Mr. B. Superior, in what 1 In the art of cultivating
he ground to raise food, and making clothes or house* ?
GENTLEMKA 288
T. No, sir, not tha* ; for gentlemen never plough th«
ground or build houses.
Mr. B. Is he then superior in knowledge ? Were you,
who have been brought up a gentleman, superior to all
he rest of the world, when you came here ?
T. To be sure, sir, when I came here, I did not know
jo much as I do now.
Mr B. If then you, when you knew nothing, and
could no nothing, thought yourself superior to the rest
of the world, why should you wonder, that men who
really excel others in those things which they see abso-
lutely necessary, should have the same good opinion
of themselves? Were you to be in Greenland, for in-
stance, how would you prove your own superiority and
importance ?
T. I would tell them that I had always been well
brought up at home.
Mr. B. That they would not believe ; they would
say, that they saw you were totally unable to do any
thing useful; to guide a boat; to swim the seas; to
procure yourself the least sustenance : so that you
would perish with hunger, if they did not charitably
afford you now and then a bit of whale or seal. And,
as to your being a gentleman, they would not under-
stand the vord ; nor would they comprehend, why one
man, who is naturally as good as his fellow-creatures,
should submit to the caprice of another, and obey
T. Indeed, sir, I begin to think that I am not so much
betlet than others, as I used to do.
Mr B. The more you encourage that thought, the
SANDFORD 1ND MEETON.
..no re likely you are to acquire real superiorly an
3xce'lence; for, great and generous minds are lea
exposed to that ridiculous vanity, than weak and child isL
ones.
A few evenings after this conversation, when the
night was remarkably clear, Mr. Barlow called his two
pupils into the garden, where there was a long hollow
tube suspended upon a frame. Mr. Barlow then placed
Tommy upon a chair, and bade him look through it ;
which he had scarcely done, when he cried out, ' What
an extraordinary sight is this!' — ' What is the matter?'
said Mr. Barlow. — 'I see, replied Tommy, 'what 1
should take for the moon, were it not a great many
times bigger, and so near to me that I can almost touch
it.' — * What you see,' answered Mr. Barlow, smiling,
' is the moon itself. This glass has indeed the powei
of making it appear to your eye, as it would do, could
you approach a great deal nearer : but still it is nothing
but the moon : and from this single experiment you ma\
judge of the different size which the sun and all the
other heavenly bodies would appear to have, if you could
advance a great deal nearer to them.'
Tommy was delighted with this new spectacle : the
moon, he said, viewed in this manner, was the mosi
glorious sight he had ever seen in his life. * And J
protest,' added he, ' it seems to be shaded in such i
manner, that it almost resembles land and water.' —
1 What you say,' answered Mr. Barlow, ' is by no
means unreasonable; the moon is a very large body
nna may be, for aught we know, inhabited like th«
jarth.'
THE MAGIC LANTHORN. 287
Tommy was more and more astonished at the intro-
duction of all these new ideas; but what he was par-
.lculary inquisitive about was, to know the reason of
this extraordinary change in the appearance of objects.
only by looking through a hollow tube with a bit of glass
fixed into it. ' All this,' replied Mr. Barlow, ' I will, if
you desire it, one day explain to you ; but it is rather
loo iong and difficult to undertake it at the present mo-
ment. When you are a little farther advanced in some
of the things which you are now studying, you will
comprehend me better. However, before we retire to
night, I will show you something more, which will per-
haps equally surprise you.'
They then returned to the house, and Mr. Barlow,
who had prepared every thing for his intended exhibi-
tion, led Tommy into a room, where he observed nothing
but a lanthorn upon the floor, and a white sheet hung up
against the wall. Tommy laughed, and said he did not
see any thing very curious in all that. l Well,' said Mr.
Barlow, * perhaps I may surprise you yet, before I have
done: let us at least light up the lanthorn, that you may
see a little clearer.'
Mr. Barlow then lighted a lamp which was within the
lanthorn, and extinguished all the other candles : and
Tommy was instantly struck with astonishment to see a
gigantic figure of a man leading along a large bear,
appear upon the wall, and glide slowly along the sheet.
As he was admiring this wonderful sight, a large mon-
key, dressed up in the habit of a man, appeared and
followed the bear ; after him came an old woman trun
tiling a barrow of fruit; and then two boys (who, how
288 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
ever, were as big as men) that seemed to be fighting *»
they passed.
Tommy could hardly find words to express his plea
sure and admiration ; and he entreated Mr. Barlow, in the
most earnest manner, to explain to him the reason of all
these wonderful sights. * At present,' said Mr. Bar-
low, ' you are not sufficiently advanced to compreheno
the explanation. However, thus much I will inform
you, that both the wonderful tube which showed you the
moon so much larger than you ever saw it before, and
this curious exhibition of to-night, and a variety of
others, which I will hereafter show you, if you desire it,
depend entirely upon such a little bit of glass as this.'
Mr. Barlow then put into his hand a small round piece
of glass, which resembled the figure of a globe on both
sides : * It is by looking through such pieces of glass as
this,' said he, * and by arranging them in a particular
manner, that we are enabled to perform all these won-
ders.' * Well,' said Tommy, ' I never could have be-
lieved, that simply looking through a bit of glass could
have made such a difference in the appearance of things.'
1 And yet,' said Mr. Barlow, « looking at a thing through
water alone, is capable of producing the greatest change,
as I will immediately prove to you.' Mr Barlow then
took a small earthern basin, and, putting a half crown
at the bottom, desired Tommy gradually to go back,
still looking at the basin, till he could distinguish the
piece of money no longer. Tommy accordingly re-
tired, and presently cried out, that ' he had totally lost
sight of the money.' — * Then,' said Mr. Barlow, * I will
enable you to aee it, merely by putting water into it.'
THE TELESCOPE. 28fc
So he gradually poured water into the basin, till, to the
new astonishment of Tommy, he found that he could
plainly see the half-crown, which was before invisible.
Tommy was wonderfully delighted with all these
experiments, and ctecLared that from this day forward
he would never rest till he had made himself acquainted
with every thing curioui in every branch of knowledge.
* 1 remember reading a story,' said Mr. Barlow, * where
a telescope (for that is the name of the glass which brings
distant objects so much nearer to the eye) was used to a
very excellent purpose indeed.' — ' Pray how was that ?'
said Tommy.
' In some part of Africa,' said Mr. Barlow, * there
was a prince who was attacked by one of his most
powerful neighbours, and almost driven out of his
dominions. He had done every thing he could do to
defend himself with the greatest bravery ; but was
overpowered by the numbers of his enemy, and de-
feated in several battles. At length he was reduced to
a very small number of brave men, who still accom-
panied him, and had taken possession of a steep and
difficult hill, which he determined to defend to the last
extremity ; while the enemy was in possession of all
the country around. While he lay with his little army
in this disagreeable situation, he was visited bv a Euro-
pean, whom he had formerly received and treated with
the greatest kindness. To this man the unfortunate
prince made his complaints, telling him that he waa
exposed every instant to be attacked by his stronger
foe ; and thougn he had taken his resolution, he ex
pected nothing but to be cut off with all his army.
Si
•90 SAIfDFORD AND MERTON.
* The European happened to have with him one of
these curious glasses, which had not long been invented
in Europe, and was totally unknown in that part of the
globe ; and he told the prince, his friend that he would
soon inform him of what his enemy was doing ; and
then he might take his own measures with the greater
confidence. So he produced his glass, and after having
adjusted it, turned it toward's the enemy's camp, which
he observed some time with great attention ; and then
told his friend, that he might at least be easy for the
present ; for the enemy's general was at that instant
thinking only of a great feast, which he was giving to
'he officers of his army. — * How is it possible,' replied
the prince, ( that you can pretend to discover so ac-
curately what is done in yonder camp? My eyes, I
think, are at least as good as yours; and yet the dis-
tance is so great, that 1 can discover nothing distinctly.'
The European then desired his friend to look through
the telescope ; which he had no sooner done, than he
rose in great trepidation, and was going to mount his
horse : for the spectacle was so new to him, that he
imagined the enemy was close to him, and that nothing
remained but to stand upon his defence. The European
could not help smiling at this mistake ; and after he had
with some difficulty removed his panic, by explaining
*he wonderful powers of the glass, he prevailed upon
him to be quiet.
* But the unexpected terror which this telescope had
excited, inspired him with a sudden thought, which lie
determined to improve to the advantage of the besiegec
Drince. Acquainting him therefore with his intention
■ANDF >*0 AND MKRTOlf. 29>
he desired him to draw out all his men in thoir military
array, and to let them descend the mountain slowly>
clashing their arms and waving their swords as they
marched. He then mounted a horse, and rode to the
enemy's camp ; where he no sooner arrived, than he
desired to he instantly introduced to the general. H«
found him sitting in his tent, carousing in the midst of
his officers, and thinking of nothing less than an
engagement. When he approached, he thus accosted
him : ' I am come, great warrior, as a friend, to ac-
quaint you with a circumstance that is absolutely
necessary to the safety of yourself and army.' — 'What
is that ?' said the general with some surprise. — * At thiy
instant,' replied the European, * while you are indulging
yourself in festivity, the enemy, who has lately been
reinforced with a large body of his most valiant troops,
is advancing to attack you ; and even now has almost
penetrated to your camp. I have here,' added he, * a
wonderful glass, the composition of which is only
known in Europe; and, if you will condescend to look
through it for a moment, ?. will convince you that
nil I say is truth.' Saying this he directed his eye to
the telescope, which the general had no sooner looked
into, than he was struck with consternation and affright.
He saw the prince, whom he had lon<r considered as
lying at his mercy, advancing with his army in exce)
lent order, and, as he imagined, close to his camp. He
could evsn discern the menacing air of the soldiers, an«
the brandishing of their swords as thev moved. Hii
officers, who thronged I >nnd him to know rn" cause of
iia sudden fright, had no sooner peeped into the won
W<£ THE PANIC.
-Jerful giass, than they were all affected in the saim
manner. Their heads had been already disturbed by
their intemperance; and therefore, without wa'ting to
consult, they rushed in a panic out of their tents,
mounted their swiftest horses, and fled away, without
staying to see the consequences. The rest of the army,
who had seen the consternation of their leaders, and
had heard that the enemy was advancing to destroy
them, were struck with an equal panic, and instantly
followed the example; so that the whole plain was
covered with men and horses, that made nil possible
haste towards their own country, without thinking of
resistance. Thus was an immense army dispersed in
an instant, and the besieged prince delivered from his
danger, by the address and superior knowledge of a
single man.'
' Thus you see,' added Mr. Barlow, * of how much
use a superiority of knowledge is frequently capable of
making individuals. But a still more famous instance
is that of Archimedes, one of the most celebrated mathe-
maticians of his time. He, when the city of Syracuse
was besieged by the Romans, defended it for a long time
by the surprising machines he invented, in such a man-
ner that they began to despair of taking it.' — * Do pray,'
said Tommy, ' tell me that story.' — ' No,' answered Mr.
Barlow, « it is now time to retire : and you may at anv
time read the particulars of th's extraordinary siege, in
Plutarch's Life of Marcel lus.
And now the time approached when Mr. Barlow was
accustomed to invite greater part of the poor of his
narisn to an annual dinner. He had a large hall, which
RICH VM) JM OR. 293
rt'as almost filled with men, women, and children : a
cheerful fire blazed in the chimney, and a prodigious
table was placed in the middle for the company to dine
upon. Mr. Barlow himself received his guests, and con
versed with them about the state of their families and
their affairs. Those that were industrious and brought
their* children up to labour, instructing them in the
knowledge of their duty, and preserving them from bad
impressions, were sure to meet with his encouragement
and commendations. Those that had been ill, he as-
sisted with such little necessaries, as tended to alleviate
their pains, and diffuse a gleam of cheerfulness over
their sufferings.'-— * How hard,' he would say, * is the
lot of the poor when they are afflicted with sickness !
How intolerable do we find the least bodily disorder,
even though we possess every convenience that can mi-
tigate its violence ! Not all the dainties which can be
collected from all the elements, the warmth of downy
beds, and silken couches, the attendance of obsequious
dependents, are capable oC making us bear with com-
mon patience the most common disease ; how pitiable
then must be the state of a fellow-creature, who is at
once tortured by bodily suffering, and destitute of every
circumstance which can alleviate it ; who sees around
him a family that are not only incapable of assisting
their parents, but destined to want the common neces.
saries of life, the moment he intermits his daily labours !
How indispensable then is the obligation which should
continually impel the rich to exert themselves in assist-
ing their fellow-creatures, and rendering that condition
25*
294 8ANDFORD AND MERTON.
of life which we all avoid, less dreadful to those whc
must support it always !'
Acting from such principles as these, Mr. Barlow was
.he common friend of all the species. Whatever his
fortune would allow him to perform, he never refused
to all who stood in need of his assistance. But there is
yet a duty, which he thought of more importance than
the mere distribution of property to the needy — the en
couragement of industry and virtue among the poor, and
giving them juster notions of morals and religion. « If
we have a dog,' he would say, * we refuse neither pains
nor expense to train him up to hunting ; if we have a
horse, we send him to an experienced rider to be bitted :
but our own species seems to be the only animal which
is entirely exempted from our care.' — When he rode
about the country he used to consider with admiration
the splendid stables which the great construct for the
reception of their horses, their ice-houses, temples, her-
mitages, grottoes, and all the apparatus of modern
vanity. * All this,' he would say, ' is an unequivocal
proof the gentleman loves himself, and grudges no ex-
pense that can gratify his vanity : but I would now wish
to see what he has done for his fellow-creatures ; what
are the proofs that he has given of public spirit or
humanity ; the wrongs which he has redressed ; the
miseries he has alleviated, the abuse? which he ha*
endeavoured to remove.'
When he was told of the stubbornness and ingratitude
of the poor, he used to say, ' that he believed it without
difficulty ; for they were men in common with theil
■uperiors, and therefore must share in some of their
THE CARD TABLE. 294
fices; but if the interests of humanity were half so dear
to us as the smallest article that pleases our palate or
flatters our vanity, we should not so easily abandon
■;hem in disgust.'
Mr. Barlow happened once to be in company with a
lady, with whom he was upon a footing of intimacy,
who was talking in this manner. * Nobody' she said,
had greater feeling than herself, or was more desirous
of assisting her fellow-creatures. When she first came
into the country, she had endeavoured to relieve all the
misery she heard of; she had given victuals to one,
physic to a second, and clothes to a third ; but she had
met with so much ill behaviour and ingratitude in return,
that she had long been obliged to resign all her charita-
ble intentions, and abandon the poor to their fate.' All
the company assented to a doctrine that was so very
conformable to their own practice and inclinations : and
agreed that nothing could be more injudicious than any
attempts to be charitable.
Some little time after this conversation, cards were
produced, and the lady who had been so eloquent against
the poor sat down to whist, at which she played for seve-
ral hours, with equal ignorance and ill-fortune. When
the party was over, she was complaining to Mr. Barlow
of her losses, and added, that she scarcely ever in her
life had sitten down to cards with better success. — ' 1
bonder, madam,' replied Mr. Barlow, ' you do not then
give them up entirely.' — ■ Alas?' answered the lady, «1
have often made this resolution, but I never have had
the courage to keep it' — 'Indeed, madam,' said Mr.
Barlow, ' it is impossible you can be deficient in courage
296 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
and therefore you wrong your own character.' — * You
do me too much honour,' said the lady, ' by your good
opinion : but whoever has given /ou this information is
deceived.' — ' I had it only from yourself, madam.' —
* From me, sir 1 When did I ever give such a character
of myself?' * Just now, madam, when you declared
that, upon the bad success of half a dozen experiments,
you had resolved never more to be charitable, and had
kept the resolution ever since. I can hardly conceive
that your love of cards is so much greater than that of
your duty and religion, and therefore, my dear madam,
} must repeat it that you certainly undervalue your own
fortitude.'
Such were the opinions of Mr. Barlow in respect to
the poor ; and therefore, instead of widening the dis
tance which fortune had placed between one part of
mankind and another, he was continually intent upon
bringing the two classes nearer together. Poverty has
in itself so many hardships and disagreeable circum-
stances, that we need not increase their number by un-
necessary pride and insolence. The distinctions of rank
may indeed be necessary to the government of a popu-
lous country ; but it is for the good of the whole, not of
individuals, that they can have any just claim to be ad-
mitted, and therefore a good man will insist upon it no
more than is absolutely necessary for that purpose. On
the contrary, whatever may be his rank or importance,
he will plainly prove, by the courtesy and benevolence
of his manners, that he laments the necessity of his own
Bieration, and, instead of wishing to mount still higher
THE DOG. 297
Would willingly descend nearer to an equality with hii
fellow -creatures.
Tommy was very much diverted with the ceremoniei
of this festal day. He had lost a great part of his West
Indian pride during his residence with Mr. Barlow, and
had contracted many acquaintances among the families
of the poor. After the example of Mr. Barlow, he con-
descended to go about from one to the other, and make
inquiries about their families : nor was he a little grati-
fied with the extreme respect with which he found him-
self treated, both on the account of Mr. Barlow and the
reputation of his own liberality.
Thus did the morning pass away in the most agree-
able and auspicious manner, but after dinner an unex-
pected incident arrived, which clouded all the merriment
of the unfortunate Tommy Merton.
Mr. Barlow happened to have a large Newfoundland
dog, equally famous for his good nature and his love of
the water. With this dog Tommy had been long form-
ing an acquaintance, and he used to divert himself
with throwing sticks into the water, which Caesar would
instantly bring out in his mouth, however great might
be the distance. Tommy had been fired with the descrip-
tion of the Kamtschatcan dogs, and their method of
drawing sledges, and meditated an enterprise of this
nature upon Caesar. This very day, finding himself
unusually at leisure, he chose for the execution of his
project. He therefore furnished himself with some rope
and a kitchen chair, which he destined for his vehicle
instead of a sledge. He then inveigled Caesar into a
iarge yard behind the house, and, extending the chai?
2i*8 SANDFORD AND MEMON.
flat upon the ground, fastened him to it with great care
and ingenuity Caesar, who did not understand the new
purpose to which he was going to be applied, suffered
himself to be harnessed without opposition, and Tommy
mounted triumphantly his seat, with a whip in his hand,
and began his operations A crowd of little boys, the
sons of the labourers within, now gathered round the
young gentleman, and by their admiration very much in-
creased his ardour to distinguish himself. Tommy be-
gan to use the common expressions which he had heard
coachmen practise to their horses, and smacked his whip
with all the confidence of a charioteer Caesar, meanwhile
who did not comprehend this language, began to be a
little impatient, and expressed his uneasiness by making
several bounds, and rearing up like a restive horse.
This added very much to the diversion of the spectators,
and Tommy, who considered his honour as materially
concerned in achieving the adventure, began to grow a
little more warm ; and, proceeding from one experiment
to another, at length applied a pretty severe lash to the
hinder part of his steed. This Caesar resented so much
that he instantly set off at three-quarters speed, and
dragged the chair with the driver upon it, at a prodigious
rate. Tommy now looked round with an infinite air
of triumph, and kept his seat with surprising address
and firmness.
Unfortunately there happened to be, at no great dis.
tance, a large horse-pond, which went shelving down to
the depth of three or four feet. Hither, by a kind of
natural instinct, the affrighted Caesar ran, when he found
that he could not disengage himself from his tormentor
PASSION. 200
while Tommy, who now began to repent of his success
endeavoured to pacify and restrain him. But all his
expostulations were vain, for Caesar precipitately rushed
into the pond, and in an instant plunged into the middle,
with his charioteer behind him. The crowd of specta
tors had now a fresh subject of diversion, and all their
respect for master Tommy could not hinder them from
bursting into shouts of derision. The unfortunate hero
was equally discomposed at the unmannerly exultation
o^ his attendants, and at his own ticklish situation. But
he did not long wait for the catastrophe of his adven
ture, for, after a little floundering about in the pond,
Caesar, by a vigorous exertion, overturned the chair, and
Tommy came roughly into the water. To add to his
misfortune, the pond was at that time neither ice nor
water; for a sudden thaw had commenced the day
before, accompanied with a copious fall of snow. Tom-
my, therefore, as soon as he had recovered his footing,
floundered on through mud and water, and pieces of
floating ice, like some amphibious animal, to the shore.
Sometimes his feet slipped, and down he tumbled ; then he
struggled up again, shaking the water from his hair and
clothes. Now his feet stuck fast in the mud, and now,
by a desperate effort, he disengaged himself with the
loss of both his shoes : thus labouring on, with infi-
nite pain and difficulty he reached the land. The
whole troop of spectators were now incapable of stifling
their laughter, which broke forth in such redoubled pears,
that the unfortunate hero was irritated to an extreme
degree of rage, so that, forgetting his own sufferings and
necessities, as soon as he had struggled to the shore, ht
800 3ANDPORD ANU MERTON.
fell upon them in a fury, and dealt his blows so liberallj
on every side, that he put the whole company to flight
Tommy was now in the situation of a warrior that pur
sues a routed army. Dismay and terror scattered all
his little associates a hundred different ways, while pas*
sion and revenge animated him to the pursuit, and made
him forgetful of the wetness of his clothes, and the
uncomfortableness of his situation. Whatever unfortu-
nate boy came within his reach was sure to be unmerci-
fully cuffed and pummelled ; for, in the fury with which
he felt himself inspired, he did not wait to consider the
exact rules of justice.
While Tommy was thus revenging the affronts he
imagined he had received, and chasing the vanquished
about the court, the unusual noise and uproar which
ensued reached the ears of Mr. Barlow, and brought
him to the door. He could hardly help laughing at the
rueful figure of his friend, with the water dropping from
every part of his body in copious streams, and at the
rage which seemed to animate him in spite of his disas-
ter. It was with some difficulty that Tommy could
compose himself enough to give Mr. Barlow an account
of his misfortunes, which, wherkhe had heard, he imme-
diately led him into the house, and advised him to
undress and go to bed. He then brought him some
warm diluting liquors, by which means he avoided al!
the bad effects which might otherwise have arisen froir
so complete a drenching.
The next day, Mr. Barlow laughed at Tommy in his
usual good-natured manner, and asked him if he in-
tended to ride out in the Kamtschakan manner ? adding
PASSION. 301
nowever, that he whould be afraid to attend him, as he
nad the habit of beating his companions. Tommy was
a little confounded at this insinuation, but replied, * that
he should not have been so provoked, if they had not
laughed at his misfortunes, and he thought it very hard
to be wetted and ridiculed both.' — * But,' replied Mr.
Barlow, 'did their noise or laughter do you any great
damage, that you endeavoured to return it so roughly ?.'
— Tommy answered, • that he must own it did not do
him any hurt, or give him any pain.' — c Why, then,'
said Mr. Barlow, 'I do not see the justice of your return«
ing it in that manner.' — * But,' said Tommy, ' it is so
provoking to be laughed at !' — « There are two ways of
remedying that,' replied Mr. Barlow, * either by not
doing such things as will expose you to ridicule, or by
learning to bear it with a little more patience.' — ' But,'
said Tommy, * I do not think that any body can bear it
with patience.' — ' All the world,' said Mr. Barlow, ' are
are not quite so passionate as you are. It is not long
ago that you were speaking of the poor Greenlanders
with great contempt, and fancying them much inferior
to yourself; yet those poor barbarians, as you called
them, that live upon fish, and are not brought up like
gentlemen's sons, are capable of giving you a lesson that
would be of the greatest service if you would observe
it.' — ' What is that, sir?' enquired Tommy. — * They are
hrought up to so much moderation and self-command,'
said Mr. Barlow, * that they never give way to those
sudden impulses of passion that are common among
the Europeans ; and, when they observe their violent
gestures, their angry words, their countenances inflamed
36
802
SANDFORD AND MERTON
with wrath, they feel for therru the greatest contempt
and say they mus', have been very badly educated. \s
to themselves, if any person think himself ill-used by
another, without putting himself into any passion upon
the occasion, he defies his foe to meet him at a particu-
lar time before all their mutual acquaintance/
T. But then, I suppose, they fight ; and that is being
as passionate as I was.
Mr. B. I am sorry that you, who pretend to have
oeen so well brought up, should have recourse to the
example of the Greenlanders, in order to justify your
own conduct, but in this case you are mistaken, for the
barbarians are a great deal wiser than young gentlemen.
The person who thinks himself injured does indeed chal-
lenge his antagonist, but it is to a very different sort of
combat from what you imagine. Both parties appear at
.be appointed time, and each is surrounded with a com-
pany of his particular friends. The place where they
assemble is generally the middle of one of their large
huts, that all the persons of their society may be impar
tial spectators of their contest. When they are thus
convened, the champion, who by agreement is to begin,
steps forward into the middle of the circle, and enter-
tains them with a song or speech, which he has before
meditated. In this performance he generally contrives
.o throw all the ridicule he is able upon his antagonist,
nnd his satire is applauded by his own party, and ex-
cites universal merriment among the audience. When
oe has sung or declaimed himself out of breath, it is the
am of his rival to begin, who goes on in the same man-
or, answering all the satire that has been thrown udob
RIDICULE. 309
him, and endeavauring to win the laughers over to his
own side. In this manner do the combatants go on,
alternately reciting their compositions against each other,
till the memory or invention of one of them fails, and
he is obliged to yield the victory to his rival. After this
public spectacle of their ingenuity, the two champions
generally forget all their animosities, and are cordially
reconciled. ' This,' added Mr. Barlow, * appears to me
to be a much better method of answering ridicule than
by giving away to passion and resentment, and beating
those that displease us; and one of these honest Green-
landers would be as much ashamed of such a sudden
transport of anger, as a Kamtschatkan traveller would
be of managing his dogs as ill as you did yesterday.
And now the time arrived when Tommy was by ap-
pointment to go home and spend some time with his
parents. Mr. Barlow had been long afraid of this visit,
as he knew he would meet a great deal of companj
there, who would give him impressions of a very differ-
ent nature from what he had with so mu>h assiduity
been labouring to excite. Howeter, the visit was un-
avoidable, and Mr. Merton sent so pressing an invitation
for Harry to accompany his friend, after having obtained
the consent of his father, that Mr. Barlow, with much
regret, toon, leave of both his pupils. Harry, from the
experience he had formerly acquired of polite life, had
no great inclination for the expedition : however, his
temper was too easy and obliging to raise any objections
304 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
and the real affection he now entertained for master
Merlon, rendered him less averse than he would other-
wise have been.
When the)* arrived at Mr. Merton's they were intro-
Juced into a crowded drawing room, full of the most
elegant company which that part of the country afforded,
among whom were several young gentleman and ladies
of different ages, who had been purposely invited to
spend their holidays with master Merton. As soon as
master Merton entered every tongue was let loose in
his praise; 'he was grown, he was improved, he was
such a charming boy ;' his eyes, his hair, his teeth, his
every feature was the admiration of all the ladies.
Thrice did he make the circle, in order to receive the
congratulations of the company, and to be introduced to
the young ladies.
As to Harry he had the good fortune to be taken
notice of by nobody except Mr. Merton, who received
him with great cordiality. A lady, however, who sat by
Mrs. Merton, asked her in a whisper, which was loud
enough to be heard all over the room, whether that was
the little plough-boy whom she had heard Mr. Barlow
was attempting to breed up like a gentleman ? Mrs.
Merton answered it was. * I protest said the lady, * I
should have thought so by his plebian look, and vulgar
air. But I wonder, my dear madam, that you will suf-
fer your son, who, without flattery, is one of the most
accomplished children I ever saw in my life, with quite
the air of fashion, to keep such company. Are you not
afraid that master Merton should insensibly contract
had habits, and a grovelling way of thinking? For my
FLATTEJtt AND CONTEMPT. 305
own part as I think a good education is a thing of the
utmost consequence in life, I have spared no pains to
give my dear Matilda every possible advantage.' — « In-
deed,' replied Mrs. Merton, * one may see the excellence
of her education in every thing Miss Matilda does. She
plays most divinely upon the harpsichord, talks French
even better than she does English, and draws in the
style of a master. Indeed, I think that last figure of
the naked Gladiator the finest thing I ever saw in
m/ lifef
While this conversation was going on in one part of
the room, a young lady, observing that nobody seemed
to take the least notice of Harry, advanced towards him
with the greatest affability, and began to enter into con-
versation with him. This young lady's name was
Simmon's. Her father and mother had been two of the
most respectable people in the country, according to the
old style of English gentry, but, he having died while
she was young, the care of her had devolved upon an
uncle, who was a man of sense and benevolence, but a
very great humorist. This gentleman had such pecu-
liar ideas of female character, that he waged war with
most of the polite and modern accomplishments. As
one of the first blessings of life was health, he endea-
voured to prevent that sickly delicacy, which is con-
sidered as so great an ornament in fashionable life, by a
more robust and hardy education. His neice was ac-
customed, from her earliest years, to plunge into a cold
bath at every season of the year, to rise by candle-light
in winter, to ride a dozen miles upon a trotting horse, or
to walk as many even with the hazard of being splashed
26*
BOG SANDFORD AND MEKTox.
or soiling her clothes. By this mode of education Mi^s
3ukey (for so she had the misfortune to be named) acquired
an excellent character, accompanied, however, with some
dispositions, which disqualified her almost as much as
Harry for fashionable life. She was acquainted with all
the best authors in our language, nor was she ignorant
of those in French, although she could not speak a word
of the language. Her uncle, who was a man of sense and
knowledge, had besides instructed her in several parts
of knowledge, which rarely fall to the lot of ladies;
such as the established Laws of Nature, and a small
degree of Geometry. She was, besides, brought up to
every species of household employment, which is now
exploded by ladies of every rank and station, as means
and vulgar, and taught to believe that domestic economy
is a point of the utmost consequence to every woman
who intends to be a wife or mother. As to music,
though Miss Simmons had a very agreeable voice, and
could sing several simple songs in a very pleasing man-
ner, she was entirely ignorant of it ; her uncle used to
say, that human life is not long enough to throw away
so much time upon the science of making a noise. Nor
would he permit her to learn French, although he under-
stood it himself; women, he thought, are not birds of
passage, that are to be eternally changing their place
of abode. 'I have never seen any good,' would he say,
from the importation of foreign manners ; every virtue
may be learned and practised at home, and it is only
because we do not choose to have either virtue or religion
among us, that so many adventures are yearly sent out
to smuggle foreign graces. As to various languages, 1
F0BEIGN MANNER*. 307
do not see the necessity of them for a woman. My
niece is to marry an Englishman, and to live in Eng-
land. To what purpose then should I laboui to take
off the difficulty of conversing with foreigners, and to
promote her intercourse with barbers, valets, dancing
masters, and adventurers of every description, that are
continually doing us the honour to come among us ?
As to the French nation, I know and esteem it on many
accounts, but I am very doubtful whether the English
will ever gain much by adopting either their manners
or their government, and when respectable foreigners
choose to visit us, I see no reason why they should
not take the trouble of learning the language of the
country.
Such had been the education of Miss Simmons, who
was the only one. of all the genteel company at Mr.
Merton's that thought Harry deserving the least atten
tion. This young lady, who possessed an uncommon
degree of natural benevolence of character, came up to
him, and addressed him in such a manner, as set him
perfectly at his ease. Harry was destitute of the arti-
ficial graces of society ; but he posssesed that natural
politeness and good nature, without which all artificial
graces are the most disgusting things in the world.
Harry had an understanding naturally strong; ana Mr.
Barlow, while he had with the greatest care preserved
him from all false impressions, had taken great pains in
cultivating the faculties of his mind. Harry, indeed,
never said any of those brilliant things which render a
boy the darling of the ladies ; he had not that vivacity,
•r rathei impertinence, which frequently passes for wit
308 SANDFORD AND MBRTOiV
with superficial people : but he paid the greatest atten*
tion to what was said to him, and made the most judi-
cious observations upon subjects he understood. For
this reason, Miss Simmons, although much older and
more -improved, received great satisfaction from con-
versing with him, and thought little Harry infinitely
loore agreeable and judicious, than any of the smart
young gentlemen she had hitherto seen at Mr. Merton's.
But now the company was summoned to the im-
portant business of dinner. Harry could not help sigh-
ing when he reflected on what he had to undergo ; how-
ever, he determined to bear it with all imaginable forti-
tude for the sake of his friend Tommy. The dinnei
indeed was, if possible more dreadful than any thing he
had before undergone : so many fine gentlemen and
ladies ; so many powdered servants to stand behind
their chairs : such an apparatus of dishes which Harry
had never tasted before, and which almost made him
sick when he did taste ; so many removes : such pomp
and solemnity about what seemed the easiest thing in
the world : that Harry could not help envying the con-
dition of his father's labourers, who, when they are
hungry, can sit at their ease under a hedge, and make
a dinner without plates, table cloths, or compliments !
In the mean time, his friend Tommy was received
amid the circle of the ladies, and attended to as a pro-
digy of wit and ingenuity. Harry could not heip being
surprised at this ; his affection for his friend was totally
unmixed with the meanness of jealousy, and he received
the sincerest pleasure from every improvement which
Tommy had made : however, he had never discoverec
THE DINNER. 30fc
in him any of those surprising talents : and, when he
could catch any thing that Tommy said, it appeared to
him rather inferior to his usual method of conversation :
however, as so many fine ladies were of a different
opinion, he took it for granted that he must be mis*
taken.
But if Harry's opinion of his friend's abilities was
not much improved by this exhibition, it was not so
with Tommy. The repeated assurance which he re-
ceived that he was indeed a little prodigy, began to con-
vince him that he really was so. When he considered
the company he came from, he found that infinite in-
justice had been done to his merit: for at Mr. Barlow's
he was frequently contradicted, and obliged to give a
reason for what he said ; but here, in order to be ad-
mired, he had nothing to do but talk ; whether he had
any meaning or not, his auditors always found either
wit or sense, or a most entertaining sprightliness in all
he said. Nor was Mrs. Merton herself deficient in
bestowing marks of admiration upon her son. To see
him before improve in health, in understanding, in
virtue, had given her a pleasurable sensation, for she
was by no means destitute of good dispositions ; but to
see him shine with such transcendant brightness, before
such excellent judges, and in so polite a company, in-
spired her with raptures she had never felt before. In*
deed, in consequence of this success, the young gentle*
man's yolubility improved so much, that, befoie dinner
was over, he seemed disposed to engross the whole
conversation to himself; and Mr. Merton, who did no?
quite relish the sallies of h^ son so much as his *ife
310 SANDFORB Afll) MERTON.
wai once or twice obliged to interpose and check him la
nis career. This Mrs. Merton thought very hard, and
all the ladies, after they had retired into the drawing*
room, agreed, that his father would certainly spoil his
emper by such improper contradiction.
As to little Harry, he had not the good fortune u
please the greater number of the ladies ; they observed
that he was awkward and ungenteel, and had a heavy
clownish look ; he was also silent and reserved, and had
not said a single agreeable thing : if Mr. Barlow chose
to keep a school for carters and threshers, nobody would
hinder him ; but it was not proper to introduce such vul-
gar people to the sons of persons of fashion. It was
therefore agreed, that Mr. Barlow ought either to send
tittle Harry home to his friends, or to be no more
honoured with the company of master Merton. Indeed,
one of the ladies hinted, that Mr. Barlow himself was
but ' an odd kind of man, who never went to assemblies>
and played upon no kind of instrument.'
Why,' answered Mrs. Merton, ' to tell the truth, )
was not over fond of the scheme : Mr. Barlow, to be
sure, though a very good, is a very odd kind of man.
However, as he is so disinterested, and would never
receive the least present from us, I doubt whether we
could, with propriety, insist upon his turning little Sand-
ford out of the house.' — ' If that is the case, madam,'
answered Mrs. Compton (for that was the name of the
lady), { I think it would be Infinitely better to remove
master Merton, and place him in some polite seminary,
where he might acquire a knowledge of the world, and
make genteel connexions This will always be the
CONNEXIONS. 31]
greatest advantage to a young gentleman, and will prove
of the most essential service to him in life. For though
a person has all the merit in the world, without such
acquaintance it will never push him forward, or enable
him to make a figure. This is the plan which I have
always pursued with Augustus and Matilda, I think I
may say not entirely without success ; for they have
both the good fortune to have formed the most brilliant
acquaintances. As to Augustus, he is so intimate with
young Lord Squander, who you know is possessed of
the greatest Parliamentary interest, that I think his for-
tune is as good as made.'
Miss Simmons, who was present at this refined and
wise conversation, could not help looking with so much
significance at this mention of Lord Squander, that
Mrs. Compton colored a little, and asked, with some
warmth, whether she knew any thing of that young
nobleman ?
* Why, madam,' answered the young lady, ' what 1
Know is very little : but if you desire me to inform you,
it is my duty to speak the truth.' — ' Oh ! to be sure,
miss,' replied Mrs. Compton, a little angrily, * we all
know that your judgment and knowledge of the world
are superior to what any body else can boast : and
therefore I shall be infinitely obliged to you for any
information you may be pleased to give.' — ' Indeed,
madam,' answered the young lady, ' I have very little
of either to boast, nor am I personally acquainted with
the nobleman you are talking of; but I have a cousin
a very gooa boy, who is at the same public school with
his lordship, and he has given me such a character of
312 SANDFORD AND MEKTON.
him as does not much prepossess me in his favour*'—
1 And what may this wise cousin of yours have said of
his lordship ?' — ' Only, madam, that he is one of the
worst boys in the whole school : that he has neither
genius nor application for any thing that becomes his
rank and situation : that he has no taste for any thing
but gaming, horse-racing, and the most contemptible
amusements : that, though his allowance is large, he is
eternally running in debt with every body that will
trust him ; and that he has broken his word so often,
that nobody has the least confidence in what he says
Added to this, I have heard that he is so haughty, tyr-
ranical, and overbearing, that nobody can long preserve
his friendship without the meanest flattery and subser-
vience to all his vicious inclinations : and, to finish all,
that he is of so ungrateful a temper, that he was never
known to do an act of kindness to any one, or to care
about any thing but himself.'
Here miss Matilda could not help interposing with
warmth : she said, 'that his lordship had nothing in his
character or manners that did not perfectly become a
nobleman of the most elevated soul. Little grovelling
minds, indeed, which are always envious of their
superiors, might give a disagreeable turn to the gen-
erous openness of this young nobleman's temper
That, as to gaming and running in debt, they were so
essential to a man of fashion, that nobody who was not
born in the city, and oppressed by city prejudices, would
fthink of making the least objection to them.' She then
made a panegyric upon his lordship's person, his e'egant
taste in dress, his new phaeton, his entertaining con-
music 313
versation, his extaordinary performance upon the violin
and concluded that, with such abilities and accomplish
ments, she did not doubt of one day seeing him at the
head of the nation.
Miss Simmons had no desire of pushing the con-
versation any farther ; and, the rest of the company
coming in to tea, the disquisition about lord Squander
finished.
After tea, several of the young ladies were desired to
amuse the company with music and singing; among
the rest, miss Simmons sang a little Scotch song, called
Lochabar, in so artless, but sweet and pathetic a man-
ner, that little Harry listened almost with tears in his
eyes ; though several of the young ladies, by their
significant looks and gestures, treated it with ineffable
contempt.
After this, miss Matilda, who was allowed to be a per-
fect mistress of music, played and sang several celebrated
Italian airs ; but as these were in a language totally unin-
telligible to Harry, he received very little pleasure, though
all the rest of the company were in raptures. She
then proceeded to play several pieces of music, which
were allowed by all connoisseurs to require infinite skill
to execute. The audience seemed all delighted, and
either felt or pretended to feel, inexpressible pleasure i
even Tommy himself, who did not know one note from
another, had caught so much of the general enthusi-
asm, that he applauded as loud as the rest of the com-
pany : but Harry, whose temper was not quite so pliable,
could not conceal the intolerable weariness that over-
powered his senses during this long exhibition. Hi
37
814 SANDPORD AND MERTON.
gaped, he yawned, he stretched, he even pinched him
self, in order to keep his attention alive ; but all in vain
tne more miss Matilda exercised her skill in playing
pieces of the most difficult execution, the more did
Harry's propensity to drowsiness increase. At length,
the lateness of the hour, which much exceeded Harry's
time of going to bed, conspiring with the opiate charms
of music, he could resist no longer, but insensibly fell back
upon his chair, fast asleep. — This unfortunate accident
was soon remarked by the rest of the company, and
confirmed them very much in the opinion they had con
ceived of Harry's vulgarity ; while he, in the mean time,
enjoyed the most placid slumber, which was not dissi-
pated till miss Matilda had desisted from playing.
Thus was the first day passed at Mr. Merton's very
little to the satisfaction of Harry ; the next and the next
after, were only repetitions of the same scene. The
little gentry, whose tastes and manners were totally
different from his, had now imbibed a perfect contemp*
for Harry ; and it was with great difficulty that they
would condescend to treat him even with common civil-
ity. In this laudable behaviour, they were very much
confirmed by master Compton and master Mash. — Mas-
ter Compton was reckoned a very genteel boy, though
all his gentility consisted in a pair of buckles so big that
they almost crippled him ; in a slender, emaciated figure
and a look of consummate impudence. He had almost
finished his education at a public school, where he had
learned every vice and folly which is commonly taught
mt such places, without the least improvement either of
bis character or understanding. — Master Mash was th*
GAIETY. 31ft
•ok of a neighbouring gentleman, who had considerably
.mpaired his (brtune by an inordinate love of horse-
racing. Having been from his infancy accustomed to
no other conversation than about winning and losing
money, he ha J acquired the idea, that to bet successfully
was the summit of all human ambition. He had been
almost brought up in the stable, and therefore had im-
bibed the greatest interest about horses ; not for any real
affection for that noble animal, but merely because he
considered them as engines for the winning of money.
He too was now improving his talents by a public edu-
cation, and longed impatiently for the time when he
should be set free from all restraint, and allowed to
display the superiority of his genius at Ascot and New
market.
These two young gentlemen had conceived the most
violent dislike to Harry, and lost no occasion of saying
or doing every thing they had in their power to mortify
him. To Tommy they were in the contrary extreme,
and omitted no opportunity of rendering themselves
agreeable to him. Nor was it long before their forward,
vivacious manners, accompanied with a knowledge of
many of those gay scenes, which acted forcibly upon
Tommy's imagination, began to render their conversa-
tion highly agreeable. They talked to him about public
diversions, about celebrated actresses, about parties of
pleasure, and parties of mischief. Tommy began to
feel himself introduced to a new tiain of ideas, and a
wider range of conduct; he began to long for ihe time
when he should share in the glories of robbing orchards,
•r intuiting passengers with impurity ; but when ht
316 SANDFORD AND MERTOTV.
heard that little boys, scarcely bigger than himself, had
often joined in the glorious project of forming open re.
beliious against their masters, or of disturbing a who's
audience at a play-house, he panted for the time when
he might have a chance of sharing in the fame of such
achievements. By degrees he lost all regard for Mr
Barlow, and all affection for his friend Harry ; at first
indeed, he was shocked at hearing Mr. Barlow men-
tioned with disrespect ; but becoming by degrees more
callous to every good impression, he at last took infinite
pleasure in seeing master Mash (who, though destitute
of either wit or genius, had a great taste for mimicry^
take off the parson in the middle of his sermon.
Harry perceived and lamented this change in the
manners of his friend ; he sometimes took the liberty
of remonstrating with him upon the subject; but was
only answered with a contemptuous sneer : and master
Mash, who happened once to be present, told him that
he was a monstrous bore.
It happened, that while Harry was at Mr. Merton's,
there was a troop of strolling players at a neighbouring
town. In order to divert the young gentry, Mr. Merton
contrived that they shou.d make a party to see a play.
They went accordingly, and Harry with the rest-
Tommy, who now no longer condescended to take any
notice of his friend Harry, was seated between his two
new acquaintances, who had become his inseparable
companions. These young gentlemen first began to
give specimens of their politeness by throwing nuts and
orange-peel upon the stage ; and Tommy, who was re»
POLITENESS. 817
solved to profit by such an excellent example, threw nuti
and orange.peel with infinite satisfaction.
As soon as the curtain drew up, and the actors ap
peared, all the rest of the audience observed a decent
silence: but Mash and Compton, who were now deter-
mined to prove the superiority of their manners, begar
to talk so loud, and make so much noise, that it was im
possible for any one near them to hear a word of the
play. This also seemed amazingly fine to Tommy ;
and he too talked and laughed as loud as the rest.
The subject of their conversation was, the audience
and the performers ; neither of whom these polite young
gentlemen found bearable. The company was chiefly
composed of the tradesmen of the town, and the inhabi-
tants of the neighbouring country : this was a sufficient
reason for these refined young gentlemen to speak of
them with the most insufferable contempt. Every cir-
cumstance of their dress and appearance was criticised
with such a minuteness of attention, that Harry, who
sat near, and very much against his inclination was
witness to all that passed, began to imagine, that his
companions, instead of being brought up like the sons
of gentlemen, had only studied under barbers and tailors ;
such amazing knowledge did they display in the history
of buckets, buttons, and dressing off hair. As to the
poor performers they found them totally undeserving
mercy ; they were so shockingly awkward, so ill drest,
so low lived, and such detestable creatures, that >t was
impossible to bear them with any p^ience.
Master Mash, who prided himself upon being a
young gentlemen of gr?at spirit, was of opinion thai
27 *
318 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
they should kick up a riot, and demolish all the sceneiv
Tommy, indeed, did not very well understand what tn<
expression meant ; but he was so intimately persuaded
of the merit and genius of his companions, that he
agreed that it would be the properest thing in the world :
and the proposal was accordingly made to the rest of the
young gentlemen.
But Harry, who had been silent ail the time, could
not help remonstrating at what appeared to him the
greatest injustice and cruelty. * These poor people,'
said he, ' are doing all they can to entertain us ; is it
not very unkind to treat them in return with scorn and
contempt ? If they could act better, even as well as
those fine people you talk of in London, would they not
willingly do it ? and therefore, why should we be angry
with them for what they cannot help ? And, as to cut-
ting the scenes to pieces, or doing the house any damage,
have we any more right to attempt it, than they would
have to come into your father's dining room, and break
the dishes to pieces, because they did not like the dinner.
While we are here, let us behave with good manners,
and, if we do not like their acting, it is our own faults
if ever we come to see them again.'
This method of reasoning was not much relished by
those to whom it was addressed ; and it is uncertain how
far they might have proceeded, had not a decent, plain-
looking man, who had been long disturbed with the noise
of these young gentry, at length taken the liberty of ex-
postulating with them upon the subject. This freedom j
-)r impertinence, as it was termed by master Mash, was
answered by him with so much rudeness, that the man
THE HUMILIATION. 3lf>
who was a neighbouring farmer, was obliged to reply it
a higher strain. Thus did the altercation increase ever)
minute, till master Mash, who thought it an unpardon
able affront that any one in an inferior station should
presume to think or feel for himself, so far lost all com
mand of his temper, as to call the man a blackguard
and strike him upon the face. But the farmer, who
possessed great strength, and equal resolution, very de
liberately laid hold of the young gentleman who had
offered him the insult, and, without the smallest exertion
laid him sprawling upon the ground, at his full length
under the benches, and setting his feet upon his body
told him that, ' since he did not know how to sit quiet
at a play, he would have the honour of teaching him tc
lie ; and that if he offered to stir, he would trample him
to pieces ;' a threat which it was very evident he could
find no difficulty in executing.
This unexpected incident struck a universal damp
over the spirits of the little gentry ; and even master
Mash himself, so far forgot his dignity, as to supplicate
in a very submissive manner for a release ; in this he
was joined by all his companions, and Harry among
the rest.
* Well,' said the farmer, * I should never have thought
*hat a parcel of young gentlemen, as you call your
selves, would come into public to behave with so much
rudeness ; I am sure that there is ne'er a plough-boy at
my house, but what would have shown more sense and
manners ; but since you are sorry for what has hap-
pened, I am very willing to make an end of the affair
more especially for the sake of this little master here
820 SANDFORD AND HERTON.
<vho has behaved with so much propriety, that T am
sure he is a better gentleman than any of you, though
he is not dressed so much like a monkey or a barber.'
With these words he suffered the crest-fallen Mash to
rise ; who crept from his place of confinement, with
looks infinitely more expressive of mildness than he had
brought with him : nor was the lesson lost upon the
rest, for they behaved with the greatest decency during
all the rest of the exhibition
However, master Mash's courage began to rise, as
he went home, and found himself farther from his
formidable farmer ; for he assured his companions,
* that if lie had not been so vulgar a fellow, he would
certainly call him out and pistol him.'
The next day at dinner, Mr. Merton and the ladies,
ivho had not accompanied the young gentlemen to the
play, nor had yet heard of the misfortune which had
ensued, were very inquisitive about the preceding night's
entertainment. — The young people agreed that the per-
formers were detestable ; but that the play was a charm-
ing piece, full of wit and sentiment, and extremely im-
proving; this play was called The Marriage of Figaro,
and master Compton had informed them that it was
amazingly admired by all the people of fashion in
London.
But Mr. Merton, who had observed that Harry wbi
totally silent, at length insisted upon knowing his opinion
upon the subject.' — ' Why, sir,' answered Harry, * I ana
Very little judge of these matters ; for I nevei saw a
piay before in my life, and therefore I cannot tell whether
it was acted well or ill : but as to the play itself, if
BORROWING, ETC. 321
itemed to me to be full of nothing but cheating and
dissimulation : and the people that come in and out, dc
nothing but impose upon each other, and lie, and trick,
and deceive. Were you or any gentlemen to have such
a parcel of servants, you would think them fit for
inching in the world ; and therefore I could not help
wondering, while the play was acting, that people would!
throw away so much of their time upon sights that can
do them no good ; and send their children and their
relations to learn fraud and insincerity.' Mr. Merton
smiled at the honest bluntness of Harry ; but several
of the ladies, who had just been expressing an extrava-
gant admiration of this piece, seemed to be not a little
mortified ; however, as they could not contradict the
charges which Harry had brought against it, they
thought it most prudent to be silent.
In the evening, it was proposed that all the little gen-
try should divert themselves with cards ; and they
accordingly bat down to a game which is called Com-
merce. But Harry, who was totally ignorant of this
accomplishment, desired to be excused ; however, his
friend miss Simmons offered to teach him the game,
which, she assured him, was so easy, that in three
minutes he would be able to play as well as the rest.
Harry, however, still continued to refuse ; and at length
confessed to miss Simmons, that he had expended all
his money the day before, and therefore was unable to
furnish f he stake which the rest deposited. * Don't lei
that disturb you,' said she ; ' I will put down for you
with a great deal of pleasure.'—' Madam,' answered
Harry, ' T am very much obliged to you, I am sure
8f3 8ANDF0RD AND MERTON.
out Mr. Barlow has always forbidden me eithei tc
receive or borrow money of any body, for fear, in the
one case, I should become mercenary, or in the other,
dishonest : and therefore, though there is nobody here
whom I esteem more than yourself, I am obliged to
refuse your offer.' — « Well," replied miss Simmons,
that need not disturb you: for you shall play upon rrt}
account, and that you may do without any violation of
your, principles. '
Thus was Harry, though with some reluctance, in
duced to sit down to cards with the rest. The game
indeed, he found no difficulty in learning : but he could
not help remarking with wonder, the extreme solicitude
which appeared in the face of all the players at every
change of fortune. Even the young ladies, all but
miss Simmons, seemed to be equally sensible of the
passion of gaining money with the rest ; and some of
them behaved with a degree of asperity which quite
astonished him. — After several changes of fortune, it
happened that miss Simmons and Harry were the only
remaining players; all the rest, by the laws of the
game, had forfeited all pretensions to the stake, the pro-
perty of which was clearly vested in these two, and one
more deal was wanting to decide it. But Harry, witn
great politeness, rose from the table and told miss Sim
mons, that, as ne only played upon her account, he was
■o longer wanted ; and that the whole undoubtedly
belonged to her. Miss Simmons refused to take it , and
when she found that Harry was not to be induced to
play any more, she at last proposed to him to divide
what was left. This also Harry declined ; alleging
THE COLLECTION. 320
fiat he had not the least title to any part. But miss
Simmons, who began to be uneasy at the remarks wmch
this extraordinary contest occasioned, told Harry, that
he would very much oblige her by taking his share ol
the money, and laying it out in any manner for her that
he judged best. — * On this condition,' answered Harry,
• I wil. take it; and I think I know a method of laying
it out, which you will not entirely disapprove.'
The next day, as soon as breakfast was over, Harry
disappeared ; nor was he come back when the company
were assembled at dinner. At length he came in, with
a glow of health and exercise upon his face, and that
disorder of dress which is produced by a long journey.
The young ladies eyed him with great contempt, which
seemed a little to disconcert him : but Mr. Merton
speaking to him with great good-humour, and making
room for him to sit down, Harry soon recovered from
his confusion.
In the evening, after a long conversation among the
young people, about public diversions and plays and
actors, and dancers, they happened to mention the name
of a celebrated performer, who at this time engaged the
whole attention of the town. Master Compton, after
expatiating with great enthusiasm upon the subject,
added, ' that nothing was so fashionable as to make
great presents to this person, in order to show the taste
and elegance of the giver.' He then proposed, that, as
so many young gentlemen and ladies were here assem
bled, they should set an example;, which would do them
infinite honour, and probably be followed throughout
the kingdom, of making a little collection among them
5*24 SANDFORD AND JMERTON.
selves, to buy a piece of plate, era gold snuff-box, 01
some other trifle, to be presented in their name. He
added, ' that though he could ill spare the money,
(having just laid out six guineas upon a new pair )f
buckles) he would contribute a guinea to so excellent a
purpose, and that masters Mash and Merton would dc
the same.'
This proposal was universally approved of by all the
company, and all but Harry promised to contribute in
proportion to their finances. This, master Mash ob-
serving, said, * Well, farmer, and what will you sub-
scribe?' Harry answered, * that on this occasion he
must beg to be excused, for he had nothing to give.' —
* ' Here is a pretty fellow !' answered Mash, ' last night
we saw him pocket thirty shillings of our money, which
he cheated us out of at Commerce, and now the little
stingy wretch will not contribute half-a-crown, while we
are giving away whole guineas.' Upon this, miss Ma-
tilda said, in an ironical manner, ' that master Harry
had always an excellent reason to give for his conduct ;
and she did not doubt but he could prove to the satis-
faction of them all, that it was more liberal to keep his
money in his pocket, than to give it away.'
Harry, who was a little nettled at these reflections,
answered, l that though he was not bound to give any
reason, he thought he had a very good one to give ; and
that was, that he saw no generosity in thus bestowing
money. According to your own account,' added ie.
' the person you have been talking of gains more thuir
fifty poor families in the country have to maintain therr
REAL CHARITY.
32
•elves ; and therefore, if I had any money lo give awa}',
I should certainly give it to those that want it most.'
With these words Harry went out of the room, and
the rest of the gentry, after abusing him very liberally
sat down to cards. But miss Simmons, who imagined
that there was more in Harry's conduct than he had
explained, excused herself from cards, and took an op-
portunity of talking to him upon the subject. After
speaking to him with great good-nature, she asked him,
whether it might not have been better to have contri-
buted something along with the rest, than to have
offended them by so free an exposition of his sentiments,
even though he did not entirely approve of the scheme?
— ' Indeed, madam, 7 said Harry, ' this is what I would
gladly have done, but it was totally out of my power.'
— ' How can that be, Harry ? did you not the other night
win nearly thirty shillings?' — 'That, madam, all be-
longed to you ; and I have already disposed of it, in
your name, in a manner that I hope you will not disap-
prove.' — ' How is that ?' inquired the young lady, with
some surprise. — * Madam,' said Harry, ' there was a
young woman who lived with my father as a servant,
and always behaved with the greatest honesty and care-
fulness. This young woman had an aged father and
mother, who for a great while were able to maintain
themselves by their own labour; but at last the pool
old man became too weak *o do a day's work, and hi«
wife was afflicted with a disease they call the palsy.
Now, when this good young woman saw that her pa-
rents were in such great distress, she left her place and
went to live with them, on purpose to take care of them
2^
826 8ANDF0RD AND MERTON.
and she works very hard, whenever she can get went,
and fares very hard in order to maintain her parents,
and though we assist them all we can, I know that some-
times they can hardly get food and clothes. Therefore,
madam, as you were so kind to say that I should dis-
pose of this money for you, I ran over this morning to
these poor people, and gave them all the money in your
name : and I hope you will not be displeased at the use
I have put it to.' — ' Indeed,' answered the young lady,
* I am much obliged to you for the good opinion you
have of me, and the application of it does me a great
deal of honour: I am only sorry you did not give it in
your own name.' — « That,' replied Harry, * I had not
any right to do ; it would have been attributing to my-
self what did not belong to me, and equally inconsistent
with truth and honesty.*
In this manner did the time pass away at Mr. Mer-
lon's ; while Harry received very little satisfaction from
his visit, except in conversing with miss Simmons.
The affability and good sense of this young lady had
entirely gained his confidence ; while all the other young
ladies were continually intent upon displaying their
telents and importance, she alone was simple and unaf-
fected ! but what disgusted Harry more than ever was.
that his refined companions seemed to consider them-
selves, and a few of their acquaintance, as the only
bdngs of any consequence in the world. The most
trifling inconvenience, the being a little too hot, a little
too cold, the walking a few hundred yards, the waiting
a few minutes for their dinner, the having a trifling cold,
pr a little headache, were misfortunes so feelingly
THE BALL. 327
lamented, tWat he would have imagined they were thfi
most tender of the human species, had he not observed
that they considered the sufferings of all below them
with a profound indifference. If the misfortunes of ths
poor were mentioned, he heard of nothing but the inso-
lence and ingratitude of that class of people, which
seemed to be a sufficient excuse for the want of common
humanity. * Surely,' said Harry to himself, c there can-
not be so much difference between one human being and
another ; or if there is, I should think that part of them
the most valuable, who cultivate the ground, and pro-
vide necessaries for all the rest ; not those, who under-
stand nothing but dress, walking with their toes out,
staring modest people out of countenance,' and jabbering
a few words of a foreign language.'
But now the attention of all the younger part of the
company was fixed upon making preparations for a ball,
which Mrs. Merton had determined to give in honour of
master Tommy's return. The whole house was now
full of milliners, mantua-makers, and dancing masters :
and all the young ladies were employed in giving
iiiections about their clothes, or practising the steps of
different dances. Harry now for the first time, began
to comprehend the infinite importance of dress : even
the elderly ladies seemed to be as much interested about
the affair as their daughters ; and, instead of the lessons
of conduct and wisdom which he expected to hear, no-
thing seemed to employ tneir attention a moment, but
French trimmings, gauzes, and Italian flowers. Miss
Simmons alone appeared to consider the approaching
solemnity with perfect indifference. Harry had never
828 SANDFORD AND MERTOJS.
heard a single word drop from her that expressed
either interest or impatience ; but he had for some days
observed her employed in her room, with more than
common assiduity. At length, on the very day thai
was destined for this important exhibition, she came tc
him with a benevolent smile, and spoke to him thus : « 1
was so much pleased with the account you gave me the
other day of that poor young woman's duty and affec-
tion toward her parents, that I have for some time em-
ployed myself in preparing for them a little present,
which I shall be obliged to you, master Harry, to con-
vey to them. I have unfortunately never learned either
to embroider, or to paint artificial flowers, but my good
uncle has taught me, that the best employment I can
make of my hands is to assist those who cannot assist
themselves.' Saying this, she put into his hands a par-
cel that contained some linen and other necessaries for the
poor old people, and bade him tell them not to forget to call
upon her uncle, when she was returned home, as he was
always happy to assist the deserving and industrious
poor, Harry received her present with gratitude, and
almost with tears of joy ; and, looking up in her face,
imagined that he saw the features of one of those an-
gels which he had read of in the Scriptures : so much
does real disinterested benevolence improve the expres-
sion of the human countenance.
But all the rest of the young gentry were employed in
cares of a very different nature ; the dressing their hair,
and adorning their persons. Tommy himself had now
completly resumed his natural character, and thrown
aside all that he had learned during his residence with
LAROUB 329
Mr. Barlow ; he had contracted an infinite fondness foi
all those scenes of dissipation which his new friends daily
described to him ■ and began to be convinced, tha
one of the most important things in life, is a fashion ■
able dress. In this most rational sentiment he had
been confirmed by almost all the young ladies with
whom he had conversed since his return home. The
distinctions of character, relative to virtue and under-
standing, which had been with so much pains inculcated
upon his mind, seemed here to be entirely unheeded.
No one took the trouble of examining the real princi-
ples or motives from which any human being acted :
while the most minute attention was continually given to
what regarded merely the outside. He observed thai
the omission of every duty towards our fellow creatures,
was not only excused, but even to a certain degree
admired, provided it was joined with a certain fashiona-
ble appearance ; while the most perfect probity, or inte-
grity, was mentioned with coldness or disgust, and
frequently with open ridicule, if unconnected with a
brilliant appearance. As to all the common virtues of
life, such as industry, economy, a punctuality in dis-
charging our obligations, or keeping our word, these
were qualities which were treated as fit for none but the
vulgar. Mr. Barlow, he found, had been utterly mis-
taken in all the principles which he had ever inculcated.
1 The human species,' Mr. Barlow useJ to say, « can
only be supplied with food and necessaries by a constant
k assiduity in cultivating the earth, and providing for their
mutual wants. It is by labour that every thing is pro-
duced : without labour, these fertile fields, which art
28*
380 8ANDFORD AND MERTOM.
now adorned with all the luxuriance of plen'y, would
he converted into barren heaths, or impenetrable thick.
ets ; these meadows, now the support of a thousand
herds of cattle, would be covered with stagnated waters,
that would not only render them uninhabitable by
beasts, but corrupt the air with pestilential vapours; and
even these innumerable flocks of sheep, that feed along
the hills, would disappear immediately on the cessation
of that cultivation, which can alone support therr, and
secure their existence.
But, however true might be these principles, they
were so totally inconsistent with the conduct and opinion
of Tommy's new friends, that it was not possible for
him long to remember their force. He had been nearly
a month with a few young ladies and gentlemen of his
own rank, and, instead of their being brought up to
produce any thing useful, he found that the great object
of all their knowledge and education was only to waste,
to consume, to destroy, to dissipate what was produced
by others: he even found that this inability to assisi
either themselves or others, seemed to be a merit upon
which every one valued himself extremely ; so that an
individual who could not exist without having two attend-
ants to wait upon him, was superior to him that had
only one ; but was obliged in turn to yield to another
who required four. And, indeed, this new system
seemed much more easy than the old one ; for, instf^ad
of giving himself any trouble about his manner or
understanding, he might with safety indulge a.i hit
caprices, give way to all his passions, be humorsv»me,
hai.ghty unjust, and selfish to the extreme. He ir^hf
TUB DANCS. 881
be ungrateful to his friends, disobedient to his parents,
a glutton, an ignorant blockhead, in short, every thing
which to plain sense appears most frivolous or contemp-
tible; without incurring the least imputation, provided
his hair hung fashionably about his ears, his buckles
were sufficiently large, and his politeness to the ladies
unimpeached.
Once, indeed, Harry had thrown him into a disagree-
able train of thinking, by asking him, with great sim-
plicity, what sort of a figure these young gentlemen
would have made in the army of Leonidas, or these
young ladies upon a desert island, where they would be
obliged to shift for themselves ? But Tommy had lately
learned that nothing spoils the face more than intense
reflection, and therefore, as he could not easily resolve
ihe question, he wisely determined to forget it.
And now the important evening of the ball approached :
he largest room in the house was lighted up for the
iancers, and all the little company assembled. Tommy
was that day dressed in an unusual style of elegance,
and had submitted, without murmuring, to be under the
hands of a hair-dresser for two hours ! But what gave
him the greatest satisfaction of all, was an immense pair
of new buckles, which Mrs. Merton had sent for on pur-
pose to grace the person of her son.
Several minuets were first danced, to the great admi-
ration of the company ; and, among the rest, Tommy ;
who had been practising ever since he had been at
home, had the honour of exhibiting with miss Matilda.
He indeed began with a certain degree of diffidence, bul
was soon inspired with a proper degree of confidence bi
332 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
the applauses which resounded on every side. * Wha<
an elegant little creature !' cried one lady. * What a
shape is there !' said a second : * I protest he puts me
in mind of Vestris himself.' — ' Indeed,' said a third,
* Mrs. Merton is a most happy mother to be possessed
of such a son, who wants nothing but an introduction to
the world, to be one of the most elegant creatures ip
England, and the most accomplished.'
As soon as Tommy had finished his dance, he led his
partner to her seat with a grace that surprised all the
company anew ; and then, with the sweetest condescen-
sion imaginable, he went from one lady to another, to
receive the praises which they liberally poured out, as if
it was the greatest action in the world to draw one
foot behind another, and to walk on tiptoe.
Harry, in the meantime, had shrouded himself in the
most obscure part of the room, and was silently gazing
upon the scene that passed. He knew that his company
would give no pleasure among the elegant figures that
engrossed the foremost seats, and felt not the least in-
clination for such an honour. In this situation he was
observed by master Compton, who, at the same instant,
formed a scheme of mortifying miss Simmons, whom
he did not like, and of exposing Harry to the general
ridicule. He therefore proposed it to Mash, who had
partly officiated as master of the ceremonies, and who,
with all the readiness of officious malice, agreed to as-
sist him : master Mash, therefore, went up to miss Sim
mons, and, with all the solemnity of respect, invited he-
out to dance ; which she, although indifferent about the
matter, accepted without hesitation. In the meantime.
THE TRICK. 333
master Comptoi went up to Harry with the same nypo-
critical civility, and, in miss Simmons's name, invited
him to dance a minuet. It was in vain that Harry as«
eured him he Knew nothing about the matter; his pern*
dious friend told him that it was an indispensable duty
for him to stand up ; that miss Simmons would nevei
forgive him if he should refuse ; that it would be sum*
cient if he could just describe the figure, without embar-
rassing himself about the steps. In the meantime, he
pointed out miss Simmons, who was advancing towards
the upper end of the room, and taking advantage of his
confusion and embarrassment, led him forward, and
placed him by the young lady's Fide. Harry was not
yet acquainted with the sublime science of imposing
upon unwary simplicity, and therefore never doubted
that the message had come from his friend ; and as
nothing could be more repugnant to his character than
the want of compliance, he thought it necessary at least
to go and expostulate with her upon the subject. This
was his intention when he suffered himself to be led up
the room ; but his tormenters did not give him time, for
they placed him by the side of the young lady, and in-
stantly called to the music to begin. Miss Simmons, in
her turn, was equally surprised at the partner which
was provided for her : she had never imagined minuet-
lancing to be one of Harry's accomplishments and
herefore instantly suspected that it was a concerted
scheme to mortify her. However, in this she was deter-
mined they should be disappointed, as she was destitute
uf all pride, and had the sinceresf regard for Harry.
As soon, therefore, as the music struck up, the young
334 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
lady began her reverence, which Harry, who found he
was completely caught, and had no time for explanation,
imitated as well as he was able, but in such a manner as
set the whole room in a titter. Harry, however, arming
himself with all the fortitude he possessed, performed his
part as well as could be expected from a person that
had never learned a single step of dancing. By keep-
ing his eye fixed upon his partner, he made a shift ai
least to preserve something of the figure, although he
was terribly deficient in the steps and graces of the dance.
But his partner, who was scarcely less embarrassed
than himself, and wished to shorten the exhibition, after
crossing once, presented him with her hand. Harry
had unfortunately not remarked the nature of this
manoeuvre with perfect accuracy, and therefore, ima-
gining that one hand was just as good as the other, he
ofFered the young lady his left instead of his ght hand.
At this incident a universal peal of merrime it, which
they no longer laboured to conceal, burst from almost
all the company, and miss Simmons, wishing at any
rate to close the scene, presented her partner with both
her hands, and abruptly finished the dance. The unfor-
tunate couple then retreated to the lower end of the room,
amidst the jests and sneers of their companions, parti-
cularly Mash and Compton, who assumed unusual im
portance upon the credit of such a brilliant invention.
When they were seated, miss Simmovis could not help
asking Harry, with some displeasure, why he had thus
exposed himself and her, by attempting what he was
totally ignorant of? and added, * that though there waa
no disgrace in not being able to dance, it was very grear
POLITENESS. 388
lolly to attempt it without having learned a single step.
Indeed, madam,' answered Harry, * I never should
have thought of trying to do what T knew I was totally
ignorant of; but master Compton came to me, and told
me that you particularly desired me to dance with you ;
and led me to the other end of the room ; and I only
came to speak to you, and to inform you that I knew
nothing about the matter, for fear you should think me
uncivil : and then the music began to play, and you to
dance; so that I had no opportunity of speaking; and I
thought it better to do the best I could, than to stand
still, or leave you there.' Miss Simmons instantly re-
covered her former good-humour, and said, * Well,
Harry, we are not the first, nor shall be the last by hun-
dreds, who have made a ridiculous figure in a ball-room
without so good an excuse. But I am sorry to see so
malicious a disposition in these young gentlemen ; and
that all their knowledge of polite life has not taught
them a little better manners.'
' Why, madam,' answered Harry, since you are so
good as to talk to me upon the subject, I must confess
that I have been very much surprised at many things
I have seen at Mr. Merton's. All these young gentle-
men and ladies are continually talking about genteel life
and manners ; and yet they are frequently doing things
which surprise me. Mr. Barlow has always told me
that politeness consisted in a disposition to oblige every
body around us, and to say or do nothing which can
give them disagreeable impressions. Yet I continually
see these young gentlemen striving to do and say things
t>t no other reason than to give pain. For not to go
336 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
any farther than the present instance, what motive cat
masters Compton and Mash have had, but to mortify
you, by giving you such a partner; you, madam, toe*
who are so kind and good to every body, that I should
think it impossible not to love you V
« Harry,' answered the young lady, c what you say
about politeness is perfectly just: I have heard my uncle
and many sensible people say the same : but, in order
to acquire this species of it, both goodness of heart and
a just way of thinking are required ; and therefore manv
people content themselves with aping what they can pick
up in dress, or gestures, or cant expressions of the
higher classes : just like the poor ass, which, drest in
the skin of a lion, was taken for the lion himself, till
his unfortunate braying exposed the cheat.' — « Pray,
madam, what is that story !' said Harry.
* It is a trifling one that I have read,' answered miss
Simmons, * of somebody, who having procured a lion's
skin, fastened it round the body of an ass ; and then turned
him loose, to the great affright of the neighbourhood.
Those who saw him first imagined that a monstrous lion
had invaded the country, and fled with precipitation.
Even the very cattle caught the panic, and were scat-
tered by hundreds over the plains. In the mean time,
the victorious ass pranced and capered along the fields,
and diverted himself with running after the fugitives.
But at length, in the gaiety of his heart, he broke into
such a discordant braying, as surprised those that were
nearest, and expected to hear a very different noise from
under the terrible skin. At length a resolute fellow
ventured by degrees nearer to this object of their terror
THE CODAXivV. OAWCE. 337
and discovering the cheat that had been pra Used upon
them, divested the poor ass of all his borrowed spoils,
and drove him away with his cudgel.
*This story,' continued miss Simmons, ' is continually
coming into my mind, when I see any body imagine
himself of great importance, because he has adopted
some particular mode of dress, or the grimaces of those
that call themselves fashionable people. Nor do I ever
see master Mash or Compton, without thinking of the
lion's skin, and expecting every moment to hear them
bray.'
Harry laughed very heartily at this story: but now
their attention was called toward the company, who had
ranged themselves by pairs for country-dancing. Miss
Simmons, who was very fond of this exercise, then
asked Harry, if he had never practised any of these
dances ? Harry said, ' It had happened to him three or
four times at home : and, that he believed he should not
be puzzled about any of the figures.' — ' Well then,' said
the young lady, ' to show how little I regard their in-
tended mortification, I will stand up, and you shall be
my partner.' So they rose, and placed themselves at
the bottom of the whole company, according to the laws
of dancing, which appoint that place for those who come
last.
And now the music began to strike up in a more
joyous strain : the little dancers exerted themselves with
all their activity ; and the exercise diffused a glow of
health and cheerfulness over the faces of the most pale
and languid. Harry exerted himself here with much
better success than he had lately done is? the minuet
29
838 SANL1J0LX> k.SS* MERTON.
He had &reat command over all his limbs, and was
very well versed in every play that gives address lo the
body ; so that he found no difficulty in practising all the
varied figures of the dances ; particularly with the
assistance of miss Simmons, who explained to him everv
thing that appeared embarrassing.
But now, by the continuance of the dance, all whe
were at first at the upper end had descended to the bot-
tom ; where, by the laws of the diversion, they ought to
have waited quietly, till their companions, becoming in
their turn uppermost, had danced down to their former
places. But when miss Simmons and Harry expected
to have had iheir just share of the exercise, they found
that almost all their companions had deserted them and
retired to their places. Harry could not help wondering
at this behaviour ; but miss Simmons told him with a
smile, that it was only of a piece with the rest : and
she had often remarked it at country assemblages,
where all the gentry of a county were gathered toge-
ther. 'This is frequently the way,' aided she, 'that
those who think themselves superior to the rest of the
world, choose to show their importance.' — 'This is a
very bad way, indeed,' replied Harry : ' people may
choose whether they will dance or practise any particu
lar diversion ; but, if they do, they ought to submit to
the laws of it without repining: and, I have always ob-
served among the little boys whom I am acquainted
with, that wherever this disposition prevails, it is the
greatest proof of a bad and contemptible temper.' — ' 1
am afraid,' replied miss Simmons, ' that your observa-
tions will hold universally true ; and that those wrw
THE OOUNTKV DANCE 339
expect so much for themselves, without Deing willing to
consider their fellow-creatures in turn, in whatevei
station they are found, are always the most mean,
ignorant, and despicable of the species.'
*I remember,' said Harry, ' reading a story of a great
man, called Sir Philip Sydney.- — This gentleman was
reckoned not only the bravest, but the politest person in
all England. It happened that he was sent over the sea
to assist some of our allies against their enemies. After
having distinguished himself in such a manner as gained
him the love and esteem of all the army, this excellent
man one day received a shot which broke his thigh, as
he was bravely fighting at the head of his men. Sir
Philip Sydney felt that he was mortally wounded, and
was obliged to turn his horse's head and retire to his
tent, in order to have his wound examined. By the
time that he had reached his tent, he not only felt great
agonies from his wound, but, the heat of the weather,
and the fever which the pain produced, had excited an
intolerable thirst ; so that he prayed his attendants to
fetch him a little water. With infinite difficulty some
water was procured and brought to him ; but, just as he
was raising the cup to his lips, he chanced to see a poor
English soldier, who had been mortally wounded in the
same engagement, and lay upon the ground, faint and
bleeding, and ready to expire. The poor man was suf-
fering, like his general, from the pain of a consuming
thirst : and therefore, though respect prevented him from
asking for any, he turned his dying eyes upon the
water, with an eagerness which sufficiently explained
his sufferings. Upon this, the excellent and noble gen
340 SANDFOKD AND HEKTDN.
:leman look the cup, which he had not yet tasted, from
ms Yips, and gave it to his attendants ; ordering them to
carry it to the wounded soldier, and only saying, " This
poor man wants it still more than I do.' "
' This story,' added Harry, £ was always a particular
avourite with Mr. Barlow : and he has often pointed it
out to me, as an example not only of the greatest virtue
and humanity, but also of that elevated method of think-
ing, which constitutes the true gentleman. " For what
is it,*' (I have heard him say,) " that gives a superiority
of manners, but the inclination to sacrifice our cwn
pleasures and interests to the well being of others ?"'
An ordinary person might have pitied the poor soldier,
or even have assisted him, when he had first taken caro
of himself: but who, in such a dreadful extremity as
the brave Sydney was reduced to, would be capable of
even forgetting his own sufferings to relieve another,
who had not acquired the generous habit of always
slighting his own gratifications for the sake of his fellow-
creatures ?'
As Harry was conversing in this manner, the little
company had left off* dancing, and were refreshing them-
selves with a variety of cakes and agreeable liquors,
which had been provided for the occasion. Tommy
Merton and the other young gentlemen were now Jis»
tinguishing themselves by their attendance upon the
ladies, whom they were supplying with every thing they
chose to have ; but no one thought it worth his while tc
wait upon miss Simmons. When Harry observed this
he ran to the table, and upon a large waiter brought hei
",akes and lemunade ; which he presented, if not with a
THE FRAY. 841
better grace, with a more sincere desire to oWige than
any of the rest. — But, as he was stooping down to offei
her the choice, master Mash unluckily passed that way,
ana, elated by the success of his late piece of ill-nature,,
determined to attempt a second still more brutal than
the first. For this reason, just as miss Simmons was
helping herself to some wine and water, Mash, pretend-
ing to stumble, pushed Harry in such a manner, that the
greater part of the contents of the glasses was dis-
charged full into her bosom. The young lady coloured
at the insult; and Harry, who instantly perceived that
it had been done on purpose, being no longer able to
contain his indignation, seized a glass that was only
half emptied, and discharged the contents full in the face
of the aggressor. Mash, who was a boy of violent pas-
sion, exasperated at this retaliation, which he so well
deserved, instantly caught up a drinking-glass, and
flung it full at the head of Harry. Happy was it for
him, that it only grazed his head without taking the full
effect ; it however laid bare a considerable gash, and
Harry was in an instant covered with his own blood ;
the sight of which provoked him the more, and made
him forget both the place and the company where he
was: so that, flying upon Mash with all the fury of jusl
revenge, a dreadful combat ensued, which put the vhole
room in a consternation.
But Mr. Merton soon appeared, ant/ with some diffi-
culty separated the enraged champions. He then in
quired into the subject of the contest; which master Mash
endeavoured to explain away as an accident. But Harry
persisted in his account with so much fi nness, in which
29*
842 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
he was corroborated by miss Simmons, that Mr. Merton
readily perceived the truth. Mash, however, apologised
for himself in the best manner that he was able, by say-
ing, that he only meant to play master Harry an inno-
cent trick, but that he had undesignedly injured miss
Simmons.
Whatever Mr. Merton felt, he did not say a great deal:
he, however, endeavoured to pacify the enraged com-
batants, and ordered assistance to Harry, to bind up the
wound, and clean him from the blood which had now
disfigured him from head to foot.
Mrs. Merton, in the meantime, who was sitting at the
upper end of the room amidst the other ladies, had seen
the fray, and been informed that it was owing to Harry's
throwing a glass of lemonade in master Mash's face.
This gave Mrs. Compton an opportunity of indulging
herself again in long invectives against Harry, his
breeding, family, and manners. — ' She never,' she said,
' had liked the boy ; and now he had justified all her
forebodings upon the subject. Such a little vulgar wretch
could never have been witness to any thing but scenes
of riot and ill manners ; and now he was brawling and
fighting in a gentleman's house, just as he would do at
one of the public houses to which he was used to go with
nis father.'
While she was in the midst of this eloquent harangue
Mr. Merton came up, and gave a more unprejudiced nar-
rative of the affair; he acquitted Harry of all blame,
and said, that it was impossible, even for the mildest
temper in the world, to act otherwise upon such unmerit
ed provocation. This account seemed wonderfully t«
TRUTH OR FALSEHOOD. 34&
iurn the scale in Harry's favour : though muss Simmons
was no great favourite with the young ladies, yet the
spirit and gallantry which he had discovered in hei
cause, b°gan to act verv forcibly on their minds. One
of the young ladies observed, ' that if master Harry was
better drest, he would certainly be a very pretty boy
another said, ' she had alwavs thought he had a look
above his station ;' and a third remarked, ' that, consider-
ing he had never learned to dance, he had by no means
a vulgar look.'
This untoward accident having thus been amicably
settled, the diversions of the evening went forward. But
Harry, who had now lost all taste for genteel company
took the first opportunity of retiring to bed ; where he
soon fell asleep, and forgot both the mortification and
bruises he had received. In the mean time, the little
company below found means to entertain themselves till
past midnight, and then retired to their chambers.
The next morning, they rose later than usual ; and,
as several of the young gentlemen who had been in-
vited to the preceding evening's diversion, were not to
return till after dinner, thev agreed to take a walk into
the country. Harry went with tnem as usual, though
master Mash, by his misrepresentations, had prejudiced
Tommy and all the rest against him. But Harry, who
was conscious of his own innocence, and began to feel
the pride of injured friendship, disdained to give an ex-
planation of his behaviour ; since his friend was not suffi-
ciently interested about the matter to demand one.
While they were walking slowly along the common
they discovered at a distance a prodigious crowd of peo
844 SANDFORO AND MERTOH.
pie. all moving forward in the same direction. This at
tracted the curiosity of the little troop; and on inquiry
they found there was going to be a bull-baiting. In-
stantly an eager desire seized upon all the little gentry
to see the diversion. One obstacle alone presented itself,
which was, that their parents, and particularly Mrs. Mer-
ton, had made them promise that that they would avoid
every species of danger. This objection was, however,
removed by master Billy Lyddall ; who remarked, ' that
there could be no danger in the sight, as the bull was to
be tied fast, and could therefore do no harm. Besides,'
added he, smiling, * what occasion have they to know
that we have been at all? I hope we are not such sim-
pletons as to accuse ourselves, or such tell-tales as to
inform against one another.' — l No ! no ! no !'' was the
universal exclamation from all but Harry, who had re-
mained profoundly silent on the occasion. — ' Master
Harry has not said a word,' said one of the little folks ;
' sure he will not tell of us.' — ' Indeed,' said Harry, « I
don't wish to tell of you ; but if I am asked where we
have been, how can I help telling?' — < What !' answered
master Lyddall, « can't you say that we have been
walking along the road, or across the common, without
mentioning any thing farther?' No,' said Harry,
* that would not be speaking truth : besides, bull-baiting
is a very cruel ana dangerous diversion, and therefore
none of us should go to see it; particularly master Mor-
ton, whose mother loves him so much, and is so careful
about him.'
This speech was not received with much approbate
bv those to whom it was addressed. * A prettv fe'low.
TRUTH OR FALSEHOOD.
345
said, one, ' to give himself these airs, and pretend to be
wiser than every one else !' — * What !' said master
Compton, ' does this beggar's brat think that he is to
govern gentlemen's sons, because master Merton is so
good as to keep company with him V — * If I were mas-
ter Merton,' said a third, ' I'd soon send the little imper-
tinent jackanapes home to his own blackguard family.*
And master Mash, who was the biggest and strongest
boy in the whole company, came up to Harry and
grinning in his face, said, ' So, all the return that you
make to master Merton for his goodness to you, is to be
a spy and an informer, is it, you little dirty black-
guard ?'
Harry, who had long perceived and lamented the
coolness of master Merton towards him, was now much
more grieved to see that his friend was not only silent,
but seemed to take an ill-natured pleasure in these in-
sults, than at the insults themselves which were offered
to him. However, as soon as the crowd of tormentors
which surrounded him would give him leave to speak,
he coolly answered, { that he was as little a spy and in-
former as any of them ; and as to begging, he thanked
iiod, he wanted as little of them, as they did of him ;
oesides,' added he, ' were I even reduced so low as that,
I should know better how to employ my time, than to
ask charity of any one here.'
This sarcastic answer, and the reflections that were
made upon it, had such an effect jpon the too-irritable
temper of master Merton, that, in an instant, forgetting
his former obligations and affection to Harry, he strutted
up to him, and clenching hi-; fist asked him, « Whether
846 SANDf ORD AND MERTOfiT.
he meant to insult him ?' ' Well done, master Merton f
echoed through the whole society ; ' thrash him heartily
for his impudence. ' No, master Tommy,' answered
Harry, ' it is you and your friends here that insult me,
* What !' answered Tommy, ' are you a person of such
consequence, that you must not be spoken to ? You are
a prodigious fine gentleman, indeed.' — ' 1 always thought
you one, till now,' answered Harry. — ' How, you ras-
cal !' said Tommy, ' do you say that I am not a gentle-
man ? Take that — ' and immediately struck Harry
upon the face with his fist. His fortitude was not proof
against this treatment ; he turned his face away, and only
said in a low tone of voice, * Master Ton^my, master
Tommy, I never thought it possible you could have
treated me in this unworthy manner ;' then, covering
his face with both his hands, he burst into an agony of
crying.
But the little troop of gentlemen, who were vastly de-
lighted with the mortification which Harry had received,
and had formed a very different opinion of his prowess,
from the patience which he had hitherto exerted, began
to gather round, and repeat their persecutions. Coward,
and blackguard, and tell-tale, echoed in a chorus through
the circle ; and some more forward than the rest,
seized him by the hair, in order that he might hold up
his head and show his pretty face.
But Harry, who now began to recollect himself, wiped
his tears with his hand, and, looking up, asked them
with a firm tone of voice, and a steady countenance,
why they meddled with him? then, swinging round, he
;lisen2a<red himself at once from all who had taken hold
EVIL RETUBN FOR KINDNESS. 547
of him The greatest part of the company gave back
at this question, and seemed disposed to leave him un-
molested ; but master Mash, who was the most quarrel*
some and impertinent boy present, advanced, and, look-
ing at Harry with a contemptuous sneer, said, ' This is
the way we always treat such little blackguards as you .'
and if you have not had enough to satisfy you, we ii
willingly give you some more.' — ' As to all your nick
nnmes and nonsense,' answered Harry, 'I don't think
it worth my while to resent them : but, though I have
suffered master Merton to strike me, there's not another
in the company shall do it; or, if he chooses to try, he
shall soon find whether or not I am a coward.'
Master Mash made no answer to this, but by a slap
of the face, which Harry returned by a punch of his fist,
which he had almost overset his antagonist, in spite of
his superiority of size and strength. This unexpected
check from a boy so much less than himself, might pio-
bably have cooled the courage of Mash, had he not been
ashamed of yielding to one whom he had treated with
so much unmerited contempt. Summoning, therefore,
all his resolution, he flew at Harry like a fury, and, as
he had often been engaged in quarrels like this, he
struck him with so much force, that, with the first blow
he aimed, he felled him to the ground. Harry, foiled
in tkis manner, but not dismayed, rose in an instant,
and attacked his adversary with redoubled vigour, at the
very moment when he thought himself sure of the vic-
tory A second time did Mash, after a short but severe
contest, close with his undaunted enemy, and, by din*
of superior strength, roughly hurled him to the ground.
348 SANDFORD AND MERTOIf.
The little troop of spectators, who had mistaken
Elarry's patient fortitude for cowardice, began now to
entertain the sincerest respect for his courage, and
gathered round the combatants in silence. A second
time did Harry rise and attack his stronger adversary,
with the cool intrepidity of a veteran combatant. The
battle now began to grow more dreadful and more vio-
lent. Mash hod superior strength and dexterity, and
greater habitude of fighting ; his blows were aimed with
equal skill and force, and each appeared sufficient to
crush an enemy so much inferior in size, in strength, in
years : but Harry possessed a body hardened to support
pain and hardship ; a greater degree of activity, a cool,
unyielding courage, which nothing could disturb or
daunt. Four times had he been now thrown down by
the irresistible strength of his foe — four times had he
risen stronger from his fall, covered with dirt and blood,
and panting witk fatigue, but still unconquered. At
length, from the duration of the combat, and his own
violent exertions, the strength of Mash began to fail :
enraged and disappointed at the obstinate resistance he
had met with, he began to lose all command of his tem-
per, and strike at random ; his breath grew short, his
efforts were more laborious, and his knees seemed
scarcely able to sustain his weight : but actuated by
rage and shame, he rushed with all his might upon
Harry, as if determined to crush him with one las.
effort. Harry prudently stepped back, and contented
himself with parrying the blows that were aimed at
him, till seeing that his antagonist was almost exhausted
\ty his own impetuosity, he darted at him with all hit
THE BULL BAIT 34U
force, and, by one successful blow, levelled him with
the ground
An involuntary shout of triumph now burst from the
little assembly of spectators : for such is the temper of
human beings, that they are more inclined to consider
superiority of force than justice, and the very same
boys who just before were loading Harry with taunts
and outrages, were now ready to congratulate him upon
his victory. He, however, when he found his antago-
nist no longer capable of resistance, kindly assisted him
to rise, and told him, ' he was very sorry for what had
happened,' but Mash, oppressed at once with the pain of
his bruises, and the disgrace of his defeat, observed an
obstinate silence.
Just at this moment their attention was engaged by a
new and sudden spectacle. A bull of the largest size
and greatest beauty was led across the plain, adorned
with ribands of various colours. The majestic animal
suffered himself to be led along an unresisting prey, till
he arrived at the spot which was destined for the theatre
of his persecutions. Here he was fastened to an iron
ring, which had been strongly let into the ground, and
whose force they imagined would be sufficient to restrain
him, even in the midst of his most violent exertions.
An innumerable crowd of men, of women, of children,
then surrounded the place, waiting with eager curiosity
for the inhuman sport which they expected. The little
party which had accompanied master Merton, were now
no longer to be restrained : their friends, their parents,
idmonitkra, duty, promises, were all forgotten in an
30
35U SANDFORD AND MERTON.
instant, and, solely intent upon gratifying their curiosity
k ney mingled with the surrounding multitude.
Harry, although reluctantly, followed them at a dis-
tance; neither the ill-usage he had received, nor the pain
of his wounds, could make him unmindful of mastei
Merton, or careless of his safety. He knew too well
the dreadful accidents which frequently attend these bar-
barous sports, to be able to quit his friend, till he had
once more seen him in a place of safety.
And now the noble animal that was to be thus wan-
tonly tormented, was fastened to the ring by a strongly-
twisted cord, which, though it confined and cramped his
exertions, did not entirely restrain them. Although
possessed of almost irresistible strength, he seemed un-
willing to exert it, and looked round upon the infinite
multitude of his enemies with a gentleness that ought to
have disarmed their animosity.
Presently a dog of the largest size and most ferocious
courage was let loose ; who, as soon as he beheld the
bull, uttered a savage yell, and rushed upon him with
all the rage of inveterate animosity. The bull sufFered
him to approach with the coolness of deliberate courage :
but just as the dog was springing up to seize him, he
rushed forward to meet hs foe, and putting his head to
the ground, canted him into the air several yards; and,
had not the spectators run and caught him upon their
basics and hands, he would have been crushed to pieces
in the fall. The same fate attended another, and an-
other dog, which were let loose successively ; the one
was killed ..pon the spot, while the other, who had a leg
broken in the fall, crawled howling and limping away
THE BULL BAIT. 35 1
The bull, in the meanwhile, behaved with all the calm*
ness and intrepidity of an experienced warrior f without
violence, without passion, he waited every attack of his
enemies, and then severely punished them for their rash
ness.
While this was transacting, to the diversion not only
of the rude and illiterate populace, but to that of the
little gentry with master Merton, a poor, half-naked Black
came up, and humbly implored their charity. He had
served, he told them, on board an English vessel : and
even showed them the scars of several wounds he had
received ; but now he was discharged, and without
friends, and without assistance, he could scarcely find
food to support his wretched life, or clothes to cover him
from the wintry wind.
Some of the young gentry, who, from a bad educa-
tion, had been little taught to feel or pity the distress of
others, were base enough to attempt to jest upon his
dusky colour and foreign accent ; but master Merton,
who, though lately much corrupted and changed from
what he had been with Mr. Barlow, preserved a great
degree of generosity, put his hand into his pocket in
order to relieve him, but unfortunately found nothing to
give : the foolish profusion which he had lately learned
from the young gentlemen at his father's house, had
made him waste in cards, in playthings, in trifles, all his
stock of money, and now he found himself unable U.
relieve that distress which he pitied.
Thus repulsed on every side, and unassisted, the un*
fortunate Black approached the place where Harry stood
holding out the tattered remains of his hat, and imploi
352 SANDFORD AND MERTON."
ing charity. Harry had not much to give ; but he took
sixpence out of his pocket, which was all his riches,
and gave it with the kindest look of compassion, saying
( Here, poor man, this is all I have ; if I had more, it
should be at your service.' — He had no time to add more ;
for, at that instant, three fierce dogs rushed upon the
bull at once, and by their joint attacks rendered him al-
most mad. The calm, deliberate courage which he had
hitherto shown, was now changed into rage and despera-
tion : he roared with pain and fury ; flashes of fire seem-
ed to come from his angry eyes, and his mouth was
covered with foam and blood. He hurried round the
stake with incessant toil and rage, first aiming at one,
then at another, of the persecuting dogs, that harassed
him on every side, growling and baying incessantly, and
biting him in every part. At length, with a furious
effort that he made, he trampled one of his foes beneath
his feet, and gored a second to that degree, that his
bowels came through the wound ; and, at the same mo-
ment, the cord, which had hitherto confined him, snapped
asunder, and let him loose upon the affrighted multitude.
It is impossible to conceive the terror and dismay
which instantly seized the crowd of spectators. Those
who before had been hallowing with joy and encourag-
ing the fury of the dogs with shouts and acclamations,
were now scattered over the plain, and fled from the
fury of the animal, whom they had been so basely tor.
menting. The enraged bull, meanwhile, rushed like
lightning over the plain, trampling some, goring others,
and taking ample vengeance for the injuries he had re«
ceived. Presently, he rushed, with headlong fur?
THE DISASTER. 368
iowards the spot were master Merton and his associatea
stood : all fled with wild affright, but with a speed that
was not equal to that of the pursuer. Shrieks, and out-
cries, and lamentations were heard on every side ; and
those, who a few minutes before had despised the good
advice of Harry, would now have given the world to be
safe in the houses of their parents. Harry alone
seemed to preserve his presence of mind ; he neither
?ried out nor ran ; but when the dreadful animal ap-
proached, leaped nimbly aside, and the bull passed on,
without embarrassing himself about his escape.
Not so fortunate was master Merton : he happened
to be the last of the little troop of fliers, and full in the
way which the bull h»d taken. And now his destruction
appeared certain : for, as he ran, whether through fear,
or the inequality of the ground, his foot slipped, and
down he tumbled, in the very path of the enraged pur-
soing animal. All who saw imagined his fate inevitable;
and it would certainly have proved so, had not Harry,
with a courage and presence of mind above his years
suddenly seized a prong, which one of the fugitives had
dropped, and at the very moment when the bull was
stooping to gore his defenceless friend, advanced and
wounded him in the flank. The bull, in an instant,
turned short, and with redoubled rage made at his new
assailant ; and it is probable that, notwithstanding his
intrepidity, Harry would have paid the price of hia
assistance to his friend with his own life, had not an un-
expected succour arrived : — for, in that instant, the
grateful Black rushed on like iightning to assist him,
and assailing the bull with a weighty stick that he held
30*
154 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
in his hand, compelled him to turn his rage upon a new
object. The bull indeed attacked him with all the 1m
petuosity of revenge ; but the Black jumped nimbly aside,
and eluded his fury. Not contented with this, he wheeled
round his fierce antagonist, and, seizing him by the
tail, began to batter his sides with an unexpected storm
of blows. In vain did the enraged animal bellow and
writhe himself about in all the convulsions of madness;
his intrepid foe, without ever quitting his hold, suffered
himself to be dragged about the field, still continuing his
discipline, till the creature was almost spent with the
fatigue of his own violent agitations. And now some of
the boldest of the spectators, taking courage, approached
to his assistance; and throwing a well-twisted rope over
his head, they at length, by the dint of superior num-
bers, completely mastered the furious animal, and bound
him to a tree.
In the meanwhile, several of Mr. Merton's servants
who had been sent out after the young gentlemen, ap-
proached, and took up their young master, who, though
without a wound, was almost dead with fear and agita-
tion. But Harry, after seeing that his friend was per-
fectly safe, and in the hands of his own family, invited
the Black to accompany him, and, instead of returning to
Mr. Merton's, took the way which led to his father's house.
While these scenes were passing, Mrs. Merton, though
ignorant of the danger of her son, was not undisturbed
at home. Some accounts had been brought of Harry's
combat, which served to make her uneasy, and to in-
fluence her still more against him. Mrs. Compton, too
and miss Matilda, who had conceived a violent dislike
THE DELIVERANCE. 866
to Harry were busy to inflame her by their malicious
representations.
While she was in these dispositions, Mr. Merton hap
pened to enter, and was at once attacked by all the ladies
upon the subject of this improper connexion. He en-
deavoured, for a long time, to remove their prejudices by
reason, but when he found that to be impossible, he con-
tented himself with telling his wife, that a little time
would perhaps decide which were the most proper com-
panions for their son : and that, till Harry had done
something to render himself unworthy of their notice,
he never would consent to their treating him with cold-
ness or neglect.
At this moment a female servant burst into the room,
with all the wildness of affright, and cried out with a
voice that was scarcely articulate, ' Oh ! madam, ma-
dam ! such an accident — poor, dear master Tommy/ —
' What of him, tor God's sake V cried out Mrs. Mer-
ton, with an impatience and concern that sufficiently
marked her feelings. — ' Nay, madam,' answered the
servant, ' he is not much hurt, they say ; but little Sand-
ford had tnken him to a bull-baiting, and the bull has
gored him ; and William and John are bringing him home
in their arms.'
These words were scarcely delivered when Mrs. Mer
ton uttered a violent shriek, and was instantly seized with
an hysteric fit ; and while the ladies were all employed
in assisting her, and restoring her senses, Mr. Merton
who, although much alarmed, was more composed
walked Drecipitately out, to learn tb* 1 tru^ of this 1m
perfect narration
^56 SANDFORD AiND MERTON.
He had not proceeded far, before he met the crowd
of children and servants, one of whom carried Tommy
Merton in his arms. As soon as he was convinced that
his son had received no other damage than a violent
fright, he began to inquire into the circumstances of the
affair ; but before he had time to receive any information,
Mrs. Merton, who had recovered from her fainting, came
running wildly from the house. When she saw that hrr
son was safe, she caught him in her arms, and began
to utter all the incoherent expressions of a mother's
fondness. It was with difficulty that her husband could
prevail upon her to moderate her transports till they
were within. Then she gave a loose to her feelings
in all their violence ; and, for a considerable time was
incapable of attending to any thing but the joy of his
miraculous preservation.
At length, however, she became more composed, and
observing that all the company were present, except
Harry Sandford, she exclaimed, with sudden indigna-
tion, * So, I see that little abominable wretch has not
had the impudence to follow you in ; and I almost wish
that the bull had gored him, as he deserved. 7 — * What
little wretch do you mean, mamma!' said Tommy. —
* Whom can I mean,' cried Mrs. Merton, * but that vile
Harry Sandford, whom your father is so fond of, and
who had nearly cost you your life, by leading you into
'.his danger?' — 'He! mamma,' said Tommy, 'he lead
rre into danger ! He did all he could to persuade me
not to go, and I was a very naughty boy indeed, not to
take his advice.'
Mrs. Merton stood amazed at this information, for her
PREJTDICK 3S1
prejudices had operated so powerfully upon her mind,
that she had implicitly believed the guilt of Harry upon
che imperfect evidence of the maid. ' Who was it then,'
said Mr. Merton, 'could be so imprudent I 5 — 'Indeed.
papa,' answered Tommv, ' we were all to blame, all but
Harry, who advised and begged us not to go. and par-
ticularly me, because he said it would give you so much
uneasiness when you knew it, and that it was so dan-
gerous a diversion.'
Mrs. Merton looked confused at her mistake, but Mrs.
Compton observed, that she supposed ' Harry was afraid
of the danger, and therefore had wisely kept out of the
way.' — ' Oh, no ! indeed, madam,' answered one of the
little bovs, ' Harrv is no coward, though we thought him
so at first, when he let master Tommy strike him, but
he fought master Mash in the bravest manner T ever
saw: and though master Mash fought very well, yel
Harrv had the advantage : and I saw him follow us at a
little distance, and keep his eye upon master Merton all
the time, till the bull broke loose, and then I was sc
lightened that I do not know what became of him.'
'So, this is the little boy,' said Mr. Merton, 'whom you
were for driving from the society of your children. But
iet us hear more of this storv : for as vet I know neither
the particulars of his danger, nor his escape.' Upon
this, one of the servants, who from some little distance
had seen the whole affair, was ca"ed in and examined.
He gave them an exact account of all; of Tomrny'j
misfortune; of Harry's bravery ; of the unexpected sue-
four of the poor Black ; and filled the whole room witu
858 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
admiration, that such an action., so noble, so intrepid, 941
fortunate, should have been achieved by such a child.
Mrs. Merton was now silent with shame at reflecting
upon her own unjust prejudices, and the ease with which
she had become the enemy of a boy who had saved the
life of her darling son, and who appeared as much supe-
rior in character to all the young gentlemen at her house,
as they exceeded him in rank and fortune. The young
ladies now forgot their former objections to his person
and manners, and, such is the effect of genuine virtue,
all the company conspired to extol the conduct of Harry
to the skies.
But Mr. Merton, who had appeared more delighted
than all the rest with the relation of Harry's intrepidity,
now cast his eyes round the room, and seemed to be
looking for his little friend : but when he could not find
him, he said, with some concern, « Where can be our
little deliverer? Sure he can have met with no acci-
dent, that he has not returned with the rest!' — 'No,'
said one of the servants, * as to that, Harry Sandford is
safe enough, for I saw him go towards his own home in
company with the Black.' — « Alas !' answered Mr Mer-
ton, « surely he must have received some unworthy
treatment, that could make him thus abruptly desert us
nil. And now I recollect 1 heard one of the young gen-
lemen mention a blow that Harry had received. Surely ,
Tommy, you could not have been so basely ungrateful
as to strike the best and noblest of your friends !' Tom-
my, at this, hung down his head, his face was covered
tfith a burning blush, and the fears began silently t«
trickle down his cheeks.
CONVICTION. 3f)l
Mrs. Merton remarked the anguish and confusion of
ner child, and catching him in her arms, was going U
clasp him to her bosom with the most endearing expres-
sions, but Mr. Merton, hastily interrupting her, said, « It
is not now a time to give way to fondness for a ch'ld,
who, I fear, has acted the basest and vilest part that can
disgrace a human being, and who, if what I suspect is
true, can be only a dishonour to his parents.' At this,
Tommy could no longer contain himself, but burst into
such a violent transport of crying, that Mrs. Merton,
who seemed to feel the severity of Mr. Merton 's conduct
with still more poignancy than her son, caught her dar
ling up in her arms, and carried him abruptly out of the
room, accompanied by most of the ladies, who pitied
Tommy's abasement, and agreed, that there was no
crime he could have been guilty of, which was no.
amply atoned for by such a charming sensibility.
But Mr. Merton, who now felt all the painful interest
of a tender father, and considered this as the critical
moment, which was to give his son the impression of
worth or baseness for life, was determined to examine
this affair to the utmost. He therefore took the first
opportunity of drawing the little boy aside who had
mentioned master Merton's striking Harry, and ques-
tioned him upon the subject. But he, who had no
particular interest in disguising the truth, related the
circumstances nearly as they had happened ; and,
though he a little softened the matter in Tommy's
favour, yet, without intending it, he held up such a
picture of his violence and injustice, as wounded hi*
father to the sou
M>0 SANDFORD AND MERTOIf.
While Mr. Merton was occupied by these uneasy
feelings, he was agreeably surprised by a visit from
Mr. Barlow, who came accidentally to see him, with a
perfect ignorance of all the great events which had so
recently happened.
Mr. Merton received this worthy man with the sin-
cerest cordiality : but there was such a gloom diffused
over all his mariners, that Mr. Barlow began to suspect
that all was not right with Tommy ; and therefore pur-
posely inquired after him, to give his father an oppor-
tunity of speaking. This Mr. Merton did not fail to do;
and, taking Mr. Barlow affectionately by the hand, he
said, « Oh ! my dear sir, I begin to fear that all my
hopes are at an end in that boy, and all your kind
endeavors thrown away. He has just behaved in such
a manner as shows him to be radically corrupted, and
insensible of every principle but pr«de.' He then related
to Mr. Barlow every incident of Tommy's behaviour ;
making the severest reflections upon his insolence and
ingratitude, and blaming his own supineness, that had
not earlier checked these boisterous passions, that now
burst forth with such a degree of fury that threatened
ruin to his hopes.
• Indeed,' answered Mr. Barlow, « I am very sorry to
hear this account of my little friend ; yet I do not see it
in quite so serious a light as yourself: and though I
cannot deny the dangers that may arise from a character
so susceptible of false impressions, and so violent at the
same time; yet I do not think the corruption either so
great or so genera! as you seem to suspect. Do we not
•ee, even in the most trifling habits of body or speech
MR. BARLOW. 36]
thai a long and continual attention is required, if we
would wish to cnange them ; and yet our perseverance
is in the end, generally successful ; why then should we
magine that those of the mind are less obstinate, or
subject to different laws? Or, why should we rashly
abandon ourselves to despair, from the first experiments
{hat do not succeed according to our wishes V
' Indeed,' answered Mr. Merton, * what you say is per-
fectly consistent with the general benevolence of your
character, and most consolatory to the tenderness of a
father. Yet, I know too well the general weakness of
parents in respect to the faults of their children, not to
be upon my guard against the delusions of my own
mind. And when I consider the abrupt transition of my
son into every thing that is most inconsistent with good-
ness ; how lightly, hov instantaneously he seems to
have forgotten every thing he had learned with you, I
cannot help forming the most painful and melancholy
presages of the future.'
'Alas, sir,' answered Mr. Barlow, 'what is the gene-
ral malady of human nature, but this very instability
which now appears in your son ? Do you imagine that
half the vices of men arise from real depravity of heart ?
On the contrary, I am convinced that human nature is
infinitely more weak than wicked ; and that the greater
part of all bad conduct springs rather from want of firm
ness, than from any settled propensity to evil.'
' Indeed,' replied Mr. Merton, « what you say is highly
reasonable ; nor did I ever expect that a boy so long in-
dulged and spoiled, should bo exempt from failings. But
what particularly hurts me is to see him proceed to such
31
802 SANDFORD AND MERTOPC.
disagreeable extremities without any adequate tempta
tion ; extremities that I fear imply a defect of goodliest
and generosity, virtues which I always thought he nan
possessed in a very great, degree.'
* Neither,' answered Mr. Barlow, * am I at all con
vinced that your son is deficient in either. But you are
to consider the prevalence of example, and the circle to
which you have lately introduced him. If it is so diffi-
cult even for persons of a more mature age and expe-
rience to resist the impressions of those with whom they
constantly associate, how can you expect it from your
son ! To be armed against the prejudices of the world,
and to distinguish real merit from the splendid vices
which pass current in what is called society, is one of
the most difficult of human sciences. Nor do I know a
single character, however excellent, that would not can-
didly confess he has often made a wrong election, and
paid that homage to a brilliant outside, which is only due
to real merit.'
* You comfort me very much,' said Mr. Merton : * but
such ungovernable passion ! such violence and impe-
tuosity '
* Are indeed very formidable,' replied Mr. Barlow :
* yet, when they are properly directed, frequently pro-
duce the noblest effects ; and history, as well as private
observation, may inform us, that, if they sometimes
lead their possessor astray, they are equally capable of
bringing him back to the right path, provided they are
properly acted upon. You have, I doubt not, read tin
story of Polemo, who, from a debauched young man
YOUNG GRKBK 36fc
feecame a celebrated philosopher, and a model tf virtue^
only by attending a single moral lecture.'
'Indeed,' said Mr. Merton, *I am ashamed to confess
that the various employments and amusements in which
I have passed the greater part of my life, have not af-
forded me as much leisure for reading as I could wish.
You will therefore oblige me very much by repeating
the story you allude to.
The Story cf Polemo.
Polemo (said Mr. Barlow) was a young man of
Athens, so distinguished by his excesses, that he was the
aversion of all the discreeter part of the city. He led
a life of continual intemperance and dissipation ; his
days were given up to feasting and amusements, his
nights to riot and intoxication : he was constantly sur-
rounded by a set of loose young men, who imitated and
encouraged his vices ; and when they had totally
drowned the little reason they possessed, in copious
draughts of wine, they were accustomed to sally out,
and practice every species of absurd and licentious
frolic.
One morning, they were thus wandering about after
having spent the night as usual : when they beheld a
great concourse of people that were listening to the dis-
courses of a celebrated philosopher, named Xenocrates.
The greater part of the young men, who still retained
some sense of shame, were so struck with this spectacle,
that they turned out of the way : but Polemo, who was
more daring and abandoned than the rest, pressea tor
364 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
ward into the midst of the audience. His figure was too
remarkable not to attract universal notice ; for his head
was crowned with flowers, his robe hung negligently
about him. and his whole body was reeking with per«
fumes : besides, his look and manners were such as verj
little qualified him for such company. Many of the
audience were so displeased at this interruption, that they
were ready to treat the young man with great severity ;
but the venerable philosopher prevailed upon them not
to molest the intruder, and calmly continued his dis
course ; which happened to be upon the dignity and ad«
vantage of temperance.
As the sage proceeded in his oration, he descanted
upon the subject with so much force and eloquence, that
the young man became more composed and attentive,
as it were in spite of himself. Presently the philosopher
grew still more animated in his representation of the
shameful slavery which attends the giving way to our
passions, and the sublime happiness of reducing them all
to order ; and then the countenance of Polemo began to
change, and the expression of it to be softened ; he cast
his eyes in mournful silence upon the ground, as if in deep
repentence for his own contemptible conduct. Still the
aged speaker increased in vehemence ; he seemed to be
animated with the sacred genius of the art which he pro-
fessed, and to exercise an irresistible power over the
minds of his hearers : he drew the portrait of an inge-
nious and modest young man, who had been bred up to
virtuous toils and manly hardiness ; he painted him
triumphant over all his passions, and trampling upon
ouman fears and weakiess. < Should his country bt*
TEMPERANCE. 36f
tnvaded, you see him fly to its defence, and ready ta
pour forth all his blood: calm and composed he appears,
with a terrible beauty, in the front of danger ; the orna-
ment and bulwark of his country : the thickest dangers
are penetrated bv his resistless valour, and he points the
path of victory to his admiring followers. Should he
fall in battle, how glorious is his lot ; to be cut off in the
honorable discharge of his duty, to be wept by all the
brave and virtuous, and to survive in the eternal records
of fame !'
While Xenocrates was thus discoursing, Polemo
seemed to be transported with a sacred enthusiasm ; his
eyes flashed fire, his countenance glowed with martial
indignation, and the whole expression of his person was
changed. Presently, the philosopher, who had remarked
the effects of his discourse, painted, in no less glowing
colours, the life and manners of an effeminate young
man. * Unhappy youth,' said he, * what words shall I
find equal to thy abasement ? Thou art the reproach
of thy parents, the disgrace of thy country, the scorn
or pity of every generous mind. How is Nature dis-
honoured in thy person, and all her choicest gifts abor-
tive! That strength, which would have rendereo ihee
the glory of thy city, and the terror of her foes, is
b isely thrown away on luxury and intemperance ; thy
youth and beauty are wasted in riot, and prematurely
blasted by disease. Instead of the eye of fire, the port
of intrepidity, the step of modest firmness, a squalid
paleness sits upon thy face, a bloated corpulency enfee-
bles thy limbs, and presents a picture of human nature
lI) its most abject state. — But hark ! the trumpet sounds
81*
866 3ANDF0RD AND MERTON
a savage band of unrelenting enemies have surrounded
the city, and now are preparing to scatter flames and
ruin through the whole ! The virtuous youth that havp
been educated to nobler cares, arm with generous emu
]ation ; and fly to its defence. How lovely do the)
appear, drest in resplendent arms, and moving slowly
on in a close, impenetrable phalanx? They are ani
mated by every motive which can give energy to a human
breast, and lift it up to the sublimest achievements.
Their hoary sires, their venerable magistrates, the
oeauteous forms of trembling virgins, attend them to the
war, with prayers and acclamations. Go forth, ye
generous bands, secure to meet the rewards of victory,
o- the repose of honourable death. Go forth, ye gene-
rous bands, but unaccompanied by the wretch I have
described ! His feeble arm refuses to bear the ponder-
ous shield ; the pointed spear sinks feebly from his
grasp ; he trembles at the noise and tumul* of the war,
and flies like the hunted hart, to lurk in shades and
darkness. Behold him roused from his midnight orgies,
reeking with wine and odours, and crowned with flow-
ers, the only trophies of his warfare; he hurries with
trembling steps across the city ; his voice, his gait, his
whole deportment, proclaim the abject slave of intem-
perance, and stamp indelible infamy upon his name.'
While Xenocrates was thus discoursing, Polemo lis-
Jened with fixed attention : the former animation of nis
countenance gave way to a visible dejection ; presently
his lips trembled and his cheeks grew pale ; he was lost
in melancholy recollection, and a silent tear was ob«
««rved to trickle down. But, when the philosophe*
REFORMATION. 367
described a character so like his own, shame seemed to
take entire possession of his soul, and, rousing, as from
a long and painful lethargy, he softly raised his hand to
his head, and tore away the chaplets of flowers the
monuments of his efFeminacy and disgrace : he seemed
intent to compose his dress into a more decent form, and
wrapped his robe about him, which before hung loosely
waving with an air of studied efFeminacy. But when
Xenocrates had finished his discourse, Polemo approached
him with all the humility of conscious guilt, and begged
to become his disciple ; telling him, that he had that
day gained the most glorious conquest that had ever
been achieved by reason and philosophy, by inspiring
with the love of virtue a mind that had been hitherto
plunged in folly and sensuality. Xenocrates embraced
the young man, and admitted him among his disciples.
Nor had he ever reason to repent of his facility : for
Polemo, from that hour, abandoned all his former com-
panions and vices, and by his uncommon ardour for
improvement, very soon became as celebrated for virtue
and wisdom, as he had before been for every contrary
quality.
« Thus,' added Mr Barlow, ' you see how little reason
there is to despair of youth, even in the most disadvan-
tageous circumstances. It has been justly observed thai
few know all they are capable of: the seeds of different
qualities frequently lie concealed in the character, and
only wait for ar. opportunity of exerting themselves : and
it is the great business of education to apply such motives
to the imagination, as ./ia/ stimulate it to laudable exer-
tions. For thus the same activity of mind, the same
368 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
impetuosity of temper, which, by being improperly ap.
pliea, would only form a wild, ungovernable character,
may produce the steadiest virtue, and prove a blessing
both to the individual and his country.'
'I am infinitely obliged to you for this story,' said
Mr. Merton : l and as my son will certainly find a
Xenocrates in you, I wish that you may have reason to
think him in some degree a Polemo. But, since you
are so kind as to present me these agreeable hopes, do
not leave the work unfinished, but tell me what you
think the best method of treating him in his present cri-
tical situation.' — * That,' said Mr. Barlow, * must depend,
I think, upon .he workings of his own mind. He has
always appeared to me generous and humane, and to
have a fund of natural goodness amid all the faults
which spring up too luxuriantly in his character. It is
impossible that he should not be at present possessed
with the keenest shame for his own behaviour. It will
be your first part to take advantage of these sentiments,
and, instead of a fleeting and transitory sensation, to
change them into fixed and active principles. Do not
at present say much to him upon the subject. Let us
both be attentive to the silent workings of his mind, and
regulate our behaviour accordingly.'
This conversation being finished, Mr. Merton intro-
duced Mr. Barlow to the company in the other room.
Mrs. Merton, who now begin to be a little staggered in
some of the opinions she had been most fond of, received
nim with uncommon civility, and all the rest of the com.
pany treated him with the greatest respect. But Tommy
who had lately been the oracle and admiration of a)
LEAVE TAKING. 369
this brilliant circle, appeared to have lost all his viva,
city; he indeed advanced to meet Mr. Barlow with a
look of tenderness and gratitude, and made the most re«
spectful answers to all his inquiries; but his eyes we»c
involuntarily turned to the ground, and silent melan-
choly and dejection were visible in his face.
Mr. Barlow remarked, with the greatest pleasure,
these signs of humility and contrition, and pointed them
out to Mr. Merton the first time he had an opportunity
of speaking to him without being overheard ; adding,
4 that, unless he was much deceived, Tommy would soon
give ample proofs of the natural goodness of his charac-
ter, and reconcile himself to all his fri I ' Mr. Mer-
ton heard this observation with the greatest pleasure, and
now began to entertain some hopes of seeing it accom-
plished.
After the dinner was over, most of the young gentle-
men went away to their respective homes. Tommy
seemed to have lost much of the enthusiasm which he
had lately felt for his polite and accomplished friends ,
he even appeared to feel a secret joy at their departure,
and answered with a visible coldness at professions of
regard and repeated invitations. Even Mrs. Compton
herself and Miss Matilda, who were also departing,
found him as insensible as the rest ; though they did
not spare the most extravagant praises and the warmest
professions of regard.
And now, the ceremonies of taking leave being over,
and most of the visitors der irted, a sudden solitude
seemed to have taken posse- sion of the house, which
vas lately the seat of noise, and bustle, and festivity
870 SANDFORD AND MERTOJ\.
Mr. and Mrs. Merton and Mr. Barlow were left alone
with Miss Simmons and Tommy, and one or two others
uf the smaller gentry who had not yet returned to their
friends.
As Mr. Barlow was not fond of cards, Mr. Merton
proposed, after the tea-table was removed, that Miss
Simmons, who was famous for reading well, should en
tcrtain the company with some little tale or history,
adapted to the comprehension even of the youngest.
Miss Simmons excused herself with the greatest modesty
but, on Mrs. Merton's joining in the request, she instantly
complied, and, fetching down a book, read the following
story of
Sophron and Tigranes.
Sophron and Tigranes were the children of two
neighbouring shepherds that fed their flocks in that part
of Asia which borders upon mount Lebanon. They
were accustomed to each other from their earliest infancy ;
and the continual habit of conversing at length produced
a tender and intimate friendship.
Sophron was the larger and more robust of the two ,
his look was firm but modest, his countenance placid
and his eyes were such as inspired confidence and at-
tachment. He excelled most of the youth of the neign-
bourhood in every species of violent exercise, such as
wrestling, boxing, and whirling heavy weights : but his
triumphs were constantly mixed with so much humanity
and courtesy, that even those who found themselves vaw
rjuished could feel no envy towards their conqueror.
THE STORY. 371
On the contrary, Tigranes was of a character totally
Jifferent. His body was less strong than that ot Sophron
but excellently proportioned, and adapted to every spe-
cies of fatigue: his countenance was full of fire, bu
displeased by an excess of confidence ; and his eyes
sparkled with sense and meaning, but bore too great an
expression of uncontrolled fierceness.
Nor were these two youths less different in the appli-
cation of their faculties than in the nature of them : for
Tigranes seemed to be possessed by a restless spirit of
commanding all his equals ; while Sophron, contented
with the enjoyment of tranquillity, desired nothing more
than to avoid oppression.
Still, as they assisted their parents in leading ever}
morning their flocks to pasture, they entertained each
other with rural sports, or, while reposing under the
shade of arching rocks, during the heat of the day, con
versed with all the ease of childish friendship. Their
observations were not many : they were chiefly drawn
from the objects of nature which surrounded them, or
from the simple modes of life to which they had been
witness : but even here the diversity of their character*
was sufficiently expressed.
' See,' said Tigranes one day, as he cast his eyes
upwards to the cliffs of a neighbouring rock, ' that
ragle which riseth into the immense regions of air, tin
he absolutely soars beyond the reach of sight : were 1
s bird, I should choose to resemble him, that I m ; ght
traverse the o.ouds with the rapidity of a whirlwind,
»nd dart like lightning upon my prey.' — ' That eagle,'
answered Sophron, ' is the emblem of violence and
372 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
injustice ; he is the enemy of every bird, aud even ot
every beast, that is weaker than himself: were I to
choose, I should prefer the life of yonder swan, thai
moves so smoothly and inoffensively along the river : he
is strong enough to defend himself from injury, without
opposing others : and, therefore, he is neither feared
nor insulted by other animals.'
While Sophron was yet speaking, the eagle, who had
been hovering in the air, darted suddenly down at some
distance, and, seizing a lamb, was bearing it away in his
cruel talons ; when, almost in the same instant, the shep-
herd, who had been watching all his motions from a
neighbouring hill, let fly an arrow with so unerring an
aim, that it pierced the body of the bird, and brought
him headlong to the ground, writhing in the agonies of
death.
'This,' said Sophron, 'I have often heard, is the fate
of ambitious people; while they are endeavouring tc
mount beyond their fellows, they are stopped by some
unforeseen misfortune.' — 'For my part,' said Tigranes
1 1 had rather perish in the sky, than enjoy an age of
life, basely chained down and grovelling upon the sur-
face of the earth.' — ' What we either may enjoy,'
answered Sophron, c is in the hand of Heaven : but may
I rather creep during life, than mount to commit injus-
tice and oppress the innocent!'
In this manner passed the early years of the twt
friends. As they grew up to manhood, the difference
of their tempers became more visible, and gradually
alienated them from each other. — Tigranes began to
despise the uniform labours of a shepherd, and the
shepheed's children 373
•
humble occupations of the country; his sheep were
neglected, and frequently wandered over the plains with-
out a leader to guard them in the day, or bring them
back at night ; and the greater part of his time was
employed in climbing rocks, or traversing the forest, tc
seek for eagles' nests, or in piercing with his arrows the
different wild animals which inhabit the woods. If he
heard the horn of the hunter, or the cry of the hound,
it was impossible to restrain his eagerness ; he regarded
neither the summer's sun nor the winter's frost, while
he was pursuing his game; the thickest woods, the
steepest mountains, the deepest rivers, were unable to
stop him in his career; and he triumphed over every
danger and difficulty with such invincible courage, as
made him at once an object of terror and admiration to
all the youth in the neighbourhood. His friend Sophron
alone beheld his exploits neither with terror nor admi-
ration. Of all his comrades, Sophron was the only one
whom Tigranes still continued to respect : for he knew
that, with a gentleness of temper which scarcely any
thing could exasperate, he possessed the firmest courage,
and a degree of bodily strength which rendered that
courage invincible. He affected, indeed, to despise the
virtuous moderation of his friend, and ridiculed it with
some of his looser comrades as an abject pusillanimity ;
but he felt himself humbled whenever he was in his
compan), as before a superior being, and therefore gra
dually estranged himself from his society.
Sophron, on the contrary, entertained the sincerest
regard for his friend ; but he knew his defects, and
trembled for the consequences which the violence £»if*
32
374 SANDFORE ANE MERTON.
ambiwon of his character might one day produce.
Whenever Tigranes abandoned his flocks, or left hit
rustic tasks undone, Sophron had the goodness to sup-
ply whatever he had omitted. Such was the vigoui of
his constitution, that he was indefatigable in every labour ,
nor did he ever exert his force more willingly than in
performing these voluntary duties to his absent friend.
Whenever he met with Tigranes, he accosted him in the
gentlest manner, and endeavoured to win him back to
his former habits and manners. He represented to him
the injury he did his parents, and the disquietude he
occasioned in their minds, by thus abandoning the
duties of his profession. He sometimes, but with the
greatest mildness, hinted at the coldness with which
Tigranes treated him ; and reminded his friend of the
pleasing intercourse of their childhood. But all his re-
monstrances were vain ; Tigranes heard him at first
with coolness, then with impatience or contempt, and,
at last, avoided him altogether.
Sophron had a lamb which he had formerly saved
from the devouring jaws of a wolf, who had already
bitten him in several places and destroyed his dam.
The tenderness with which this benevolent young man
had nursed and fed him during his infancy, had so
attached him to his master, that he seemed to prefer his
society to that of his own species. Wherever Sophron
vent, the faithful lamb accompanied him like his dogs,
ay down beside him when he reposed, and followed
lose behind when he drove the rest of the flock to pas
u»*e. Sophron was equally attached to his dumb com
panion ; he often liverted himself with his >nnoce*j
THE YOUNG WOLF. 371
gambols, fed him with the choicest herbs out of his
hands, and, when he slept at night, the lamb was sure
to repose beside him.
It happened about this time, that Tigranes, as he was
one day exploring the woods, discovered the den of a
she-wolf, in which she had left her young ones while
she went out to search for prey. By a caprice that was
natural to his temper, he chose out the largest of the
whelps, carried it home to his house, and brought it up
as if it had been a useful or harmless animal. While it
was yet but young, it was incapable of doing mischief;
but, a?s it increased in age and strength, it began to show
signs of a bloody and untameable disposition, and made
all the neighbouring shepherds tremble for the safety
of their flocks. But, as the courage and fierceness of
Tigranes had now rendered him formidable to all his
associates, and the violence of his temper made him
impatient of all opposition, they did not speak to him on
the subject ; and as to his own parents, he had long
learned to treat them with indifference and contempt.
Sophron alone, who was not to be awed by fear, ob-
serving the just apprehensions of the neighbourhood,
undertook the task of expostulating with his friend, and
endeavoured to prevail upon him t<? part with a beast so
justly odious, and which might in the end prove fatal
whenever his natural rage should break out into open
nets of slaughter. Tigranes heard him with a sneer of
derision, and only answered, thai, if a parcel of mis
erable rustics diverted themselves with keeping sheep
he, who had a more elevated soul, might surely enter-
tain a nobler animal for his diversion.' — ' But, should
376 SANDJ'OKD AND MERTON.
that nobler animal prove a public mischief,' coolly r&
plied Sophron, ' you must expect that he will be treatea
as a public enemy.' — * Woe be to the man,' answered
Tigranes, brandishing his javelin and sternly frowning,
4 that shall dare to meddle with any thing that belongs
io me !' Saying this, he turned his back upon Sophron,
and left him with disdain.
It was not long before the very event took place
which had been so long foreseen. The wolf of Tigra
nes, either impelled by the accidental taste of blood, or
by the natural fierceness of his own temper, fell one day
upon the sheep with such an expected degree of fury,
that he slaughtered thirty of them before k was possible
to prevent him. Sophron happened at that time to be
within view ; he ran with amazing swiftness to the place,
and found the savage bathed in blood, tearing the car-
case of a lamb he had just slain. At the approach of
the daring youth, the wolf began to utter a dismal cry
and, quitting his prey, seemed to prepare himself for a
slaughter of another kind. Sophron was entirely un-
armed, and the size and fury of the beast, which rushed
forward to attack him, might well have excused him
had he declined the combat. But he, consulting only
his native courage, wrapped his shepherd's cloak around
his left arm, to resist the first onset of his enemy, and,
yith a determined look and nimble pace, advanced to-
wards his threatening adversary. In an instant the
wolf sprang upon him, with a horrid yell ; but Sophron
nimbly eluded his attack, and suddenly throwing his
vigorous arms about the body of his adversary, com-
pelled him to struggle for his own safety. It was then
THE TRIUMPH. 377
ihat he uttered cries more dreadful than before , and, as
he writhed about in all the agitations of pain and mad-
ness, he gnashed his terrible teeth with impotent at-
tempts to bite ; while the blood and foam which issued
from his jaws rendered his figure still more horrible than
before. But Sophron, with undaunted courage, still
maintained his hold, and, grasping him with irresistible
strength, prevented him from using either his teeth or
claws in his own defence. It was not long before the
struggles and violence of the wolf grew perceptibly
weaker from fatigue, and he seemed to wish to decline
a farther combat with so formidable a foe, could he have
found means to escape. Sophron then collected all his
strength, and seizing his fainting adversary by the neck
and throat, grasped him still tighter in his terrible hands,
till the beast, incapable either of disengaging himself or
breathing, yielded up the contest and his life together.
It was almost in this moment that Tigranes passed
that way, and unexpectedly was witness to the triumphs
of Sophron, and the miserable end of his favourite. In-
flamed with pride and indignation, Tigranes uttered
dreadful imprecations against his friend, who in vain
attempted to explain the transaction ; and, rushing upon
him with all the madness of inveterate hate, aimed a
javelin at his bosom. Sophron was calm as he was
brave ; he saw the necessity of defending his own life
against the attacks of a perfidious friend ; and, with a
nimble spring, at once eluded the weapon, and closed
with his antagonist. The combat was then more equal
for each was reduced to depend upon his own strength
tnd activity. They struggled for some time with ai;
32*
•78 SANDFOHD AND MERTON.
Ihe efforts which disappointed rage could inspire on th*
">ne side, and a virtuous indignation ob the other. At
length the fortune, or rather the force and coolness of
Sophron, prevailed over the blind impetuous fury of
Tigranes : he at once exerted his whole remaining
strength with such success, that he hurled his adversary
to the ground, where he lay, bleeding, vanquished, and
unable to rise. — ' Thou scarcely,' said Sophron, * de-
servest thy life from my hands, who couldest so wan-
tonly and unjustly attempt to deprive me of mine :
however,- 1 will rather remember thy early merits than
my recent injuries.' — * No,' replied the raging Tigranes,
1 load me not with thy odious benefits ; but rather rid
me of a life which 1 abhor, since thou hast robbed me
of my honour.' — * I will never hurt thee,' replied So-
phron, * but in my own just defence ; live to make a
better use of life, and to have juster ideas of honour.'
Saying this, he assisted Tigranes to rise, but, finding
his temper full of implacable resentment, he turned
another way, and left him to go home alone.
It was long after this event, that a company of sol-
diers marched across the plains where Sophron was
feeding his flocks, and halted to refresh themselves
under the shade of some spreading trees. The officer
who commanded them was struck with the comely figure
and expressive countenance of Sophron. He called the
young man to him, and endeavoured to inflame him
with a military ardour, by setting before him the glory
which might be acquired by arms, and ridiculing
the obscurity of a country life. When he thought he
Had sufficiently excited his admiration, he proposed c
rHE PJLVOURITB. 376
him that he should enrol himself in his company ; and
promised him every encouragement which he thought
most likely to engage the passions of a young man.
Sophron thanked him with humility for his offers ; but
told him that he had an aged father, who was now be-
come incapable of maintaining himself; and therefore
that he could accept of no offers, however advantageous
they might appear, which would interfere with the dis-
charge of this duty. The officer replied, and ridiculed
the scruples of the young man ; but, finding him inflexi-
ble in his resolution, he at last turned from him with an
air of contempt, and called his men to follow him, mut
tering, as he went, reflections upon the stupidity and
cowardice of Sophron.
The party had not proceeded far, before, by ill for-
tune, they came to the place where Sophron's favourite
lamb was feeding ; and as the animal had not yet
learned to dread the cruelty of the human species, it
advanced towards them with all the confidence of un-
suspicious innocence. — ' This is a lucky accident,' cried
one of the soldiers with a brutal satisfaction : * fortune
was not willing we should go without a supper, and has
therefore sent us a present.' — * A happy exchange,' an.
«?wered a second ; 'a fat sheep instead of a lubberly
shepherd ; and the coward will no doubt think himself
happy to sleep in a whole skin at so small an expense.'
Saying this, he took the lamb, and bore it away in
triumph ; uttering a thousand threats and execrations
against the master, if he should dare to reclaim it.
Sophron was not so far removed as to escape the
sight of the indignity that was offered him. fle follower
380 8AN0FOKD AND MERTON.
the troop with so much swiftness, that it was not long
before he overtook the soldier who was bearing away
his friend, and, from his load, marched rather behind the
rest. When Sophron approached him, he accosted him
in the gentlest manner, and besought him, in words that
might have touched any one but a savage, to restore his
favourite : he even offered, when he found that nothing
else would avail, to purchase back his own property
with something of greater value : but the barbarous sol-
dier, inured to scenes of misery, and little accustomed
to yield to human entreaties, only laughed at his com-
plaints, and loaded him with additional insults. At
length, he began to be tired with his importunities, and,
drawing his sword, and waving it before the eyes of
Sophron, threatened that, if he did not depart imme-
diately, he would use him as he intended to do the
lamb. * And do you think,' answered Sophron, * that,
while I have an arm to lift, or a drop of blood in my
veins, I will suffer you, or any man, to rob me of what
I value more than life?' The soldier, exasperated at
such an insolent reply, as he termed it, aimed a blow at
Sophron with his sword, which he turned aside with a
stick he held in his hand, so that it glanced inoffensively
down ; and before he could recover the use of his wea-
pon, Sophron, who was infinitely stronger closed in
with him, wrested it out of his hands, and hurled him
roughly to the ground. Some of the comrades of the
vanquished soldier came in an instant to his assistance,
and, without inquiring into the merits of the cause, drew
their swords, and began to assail the undaunted young
mail but he, brandishing the weapon which he oatf
THE ENLISTMENT. 38 1
jusi seized, appeared ready to defend himself with sc
much strength and courage, that they did not choose tc
come too near.
While they were thus engaged, the officer, who had
{urn id back at the first noise of the fray, approached,
and ordering his men to desist, inquired into the occa-
sion of the contest. Sophron then recounted, witn so
much modesty and respect, the indignities and insults he
had received, and the unprovoked attack of the soldier,
which had obliged him to defend his own life, that the
officer, who had a real respect for courage, was charmed
with the behaviour of the young man. He therefore
reproved his men for their disorderly manners, praised
the intrepidity of Sophron, and ordered his lamb to be
restored to him ; with which he joyfully departed.
Sophron was scarcely out of sight when Tigranes who
was then by accident returning from the chase, met the
same party upon their march. Their military attire and
glittering arms instantly struck his mind with admiration.
He stopped to gaze upon them as they passed ; and the of-
ficer, who remarked the martial air and well proportioned
limbs of Tigranes, entered into conversation with him,
and made him the same proposals which he had before
done to Sophron. Such incentives were irresistible to a
vain and ambitious mind ; the young man in an instant
forgot his friends, his country, and his parents : and
narched away with all the pleasure that strong pre-
sumption and aspiring hopes could raise. Nor was it
long before he had an opportunity of signalizing his in-
trepidity.
Asia was at that time overrun bv numerous bands of
882 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
savage warriors under different and independent chiefs
That country, which has in every age been celebrated
for the mildness of the climate and the fertility of the
soil, seems to be destined to groan under all the horrors
of eternal servitude. Whether these effects are merely
produced by fortune, or whether the natural advantages
it enjoys have a necessary tendency to soften the minds
of the inhabitants to sloth and effeminacy, it is certain
that the people of Asia have in general been the unre-
sisting prey of every invader. At this time several
fierce and barbarous nations had broken in upon its ter-
ritory, and, after covering its fertile plains with carnage
and desolation, were contending with each other for the
superiority.
Under the most enterprising of these rival chiefs was
Tigranes now enrolled : and in the very first engage-
ment at which he was present, he gave such uncommon
proofs of valour, that he was distinguished by the general
with marks of particular regard, and became the admi-
ration of all his comrades. Under the banners of this
adventurous warrior did Tigranes toil with various for-
tunes, during the space of many years ; sometimes vic-
torious in the fight, sometimes baffled: at one time
crowned with conquest and glory, at another beset with
dangers, covered with wounds, and hunted like a wild
beast through rocks and forests : yet still the native
courage of his temper sustained his spirits, and kept him
firm in the profession which he had chosen. At length,
in a decisive battle, in which the chieftain, unaer whom
Tigranes had inlisted, contended with the most powerfu'
of his rivals, he had the honour of retrieving the vie
HUMANITY. 393
lory, when his own party seemed totally routed ; ind;
after having penetrated the thickest squadrons cf the
enemv, to kill the general with his own hand. From
this moment he seemed to be in possession of all his
ambition could desire. He was appointed general of all
the troops, under the chief himself, whose repeated vic-
tories had rendered him equal in power to the most cele-
brated monarchs. Nor did his fortune stop even here ; for,
after a number of successive battles, in which his party
were generally victorious by his experience and intre-
pidity, he was, on the unexpected death of the chief,
unanimously chosen by the whole nation to succeed him.
In the mean time, Sophron, free from envy, avarice
or ambition, pursued the natural impulse of his charac-
ter, and contented himself with a life of virtuous ob-
scurity : he passed his time in rural labours, in watching
his flocks, and in attending with all the duty of an affec-
tionate child upon his aged parents. Every morning he
rose with the sun, and spreading his innocent arms to
Heaven, thanked that Being who created all nature, for
the continuance of life and health, and all the blessings
he enjoyed. His piety and virtue were rewarded with
every thing which a temperate and rational mind can
ask. All his rural labours succeeded in the most ample
manner ; his flock were the fairest, the most healthy
ana numerous of the district ; he was loved and esteemed
by the youth of the neighbourhood, and equally res-
pected by the aged, who pointed him out as the example
of every virtue to their families : but, what was more
dear than all the rest to such a mind as Sophron's, was
to 3ee himself the joy, the comfort, an 1 support of hi*
&S4 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
parents, who frequently embraced him with tears, ana
supplicated the Deity to reward such duty and aflectior
w'th all his choicest blessings.
Nor was his humanity confined to his own species ,
the innocent inhabitants of the forest were safe from
the pursuit of Sophron ; and all that lived under his
protecliDn were sure to meet with distinguished tender-
ness. ' It is enough,' said Sophron, { that the innocent
sheep supplies me with his fleece, to form my winter
garments, and defend me from the cold ; 1 will not be-
reave him of his little life, nor stop his harmless gam
bols on the green, to gratify a guilty sensuality. It is
surely enough that the stately heifer affords me copious
streams of pure and wholesome food; I will not arm my
hand against her innocent existence ; I will not pollute
myself with her blood, nor tear her warm and panting
flesh with a cruelty that we abhor even in savage beasts.
More wholesome, more adapted to human life are the
spontaneous fruits which liberal nature produces for the
sustenance of man, or which the earth affords to recom-
pense his labours.'
Here the interest and concern, which had been long
isible in Tommy's face, could no longer be repressed,
and tears began to trickle down his cheeks. — ■ What is
the matter, my darling?' said his mother; * what is
there in the account of this young man, that so deeply
interests and affects you V — * Alas ! mamma,' said
Tommy, * it reminds me of poor Harry Sandford ; just
juch another good young man will he be, when he is as
old as Sophron ; — and I, and I,' added he, sobbing, ' am
just such another worthless, ungrateful wretch, as Ti
COURAGE. 8fifi
granes.' — « But Tigranes,' said Mrs. Merton, < you see
became a great and powerful man ; while Sophron re-
mained only a poor and ignorant shepherd , -— < What
does that signify, mamma?' said Tommy; * for my
part, I begin to find that it is • not always the greatest
people that are the best or happiest ; and as to igno-
rance, I cannot think that Sophron, who understood his
duty so well to his parents and to God, and to all the
world, could be called ignorant : and very likely he
could read and write better than Tigranes, in spite of
all his pomp and grandeur : for I am sure there is not
one of the young gentlemen that went home to-day can
read as well as Harry Sandford, or has half his under-
standing.' — Mr. Merton could hardly help smiling at
Tommy's conjecture about Sophron's reading; but hn
felt the greatest pleasure at seeing such a change in his
sentiments ; and looking at him with more cordiality
than he had done before, he told him that he was very
happy to find him so sensible of his faults, and hoped he
would be equally ready to amend them.
Miss Simmons then continued her narrative.
If Sophron ever permitted himself to shed the blood
of living creatures, it was those ferocious animals that
wage continual war with every other species. Amid
ihe mountains which he inhabited, there were rugged
cliffs and inaccessible caverns, which afforded retreat
to wolves, and bears, and tigers. Sometimes, amid the
etorms and snows of winter, they felt themselves pinched
by hunger, and fell with almost irresistible fury upon
the nearest flocks and herds. Not only sheep and oxen
vmve slaughtered in these dreadful and unexpected at»
33
386 SANDFOED AlfD MERTOIf.
tacks; but even the shepherds themselves were fire
quently the victims of their rage. If there was time tc
assemble for their defence, the boldest of the youth
would frequently seize their arms, and give battle to the
invaders. In this warfare, which was equally just and
honourable, Sophron was always foremost; his un-
equalled strength and courage made all the youth adopt
him as their leader, and march with confidence under
his command ; and so successful were his expeditions,
that he always returned loaded with the skins of van-
quished enemies; and by his vigilance, and intrepidity,
he at length either killed or drove away most of the
beasts r rom which any danger was to be feared.
It happened one day that Sophron had been chasing
a wolf which had made some depredations upon the
flocks, and, in the ardour of his pursuits, was separated
from all his companions. He was too well acquainted
with the roughest parts of the neighbouring mountains,
and too indifferent to danger, to be disturbed at this cir-
cumstance: he therefore followed his flying foe with so
much impetuosity, that he completely lost every track
and mark with which he was acquainted. As it is diffi-
cult, in a wild and uncultivated district, to find the path
again when once it is lost, Sophron only wandered the
farther from his home the more he endeavoured to
return. He found himself bewildered and entangled in
a dreary wilderness, where he was every instant stopped
by torrents that tumbled from the neighbouring cliffs, or
in danger cf slipping down the precipices of an immense
height. He was alone in the midst of a gloomy forest.
where human industry had never penetrated, nor the
COUR1GB. 88?
woodman's axe been heard, since the moment of its ere
ation : to add to his distress, the setting sun disappeared
in the west, and the shades of night gathered gradually
round, accompanied with the roar of savage beasts.
Sophron found himself beset with terrors; but his soul
was incapable of fear: he poised his javelin in his hand,
and forced his way through every opposition, till at
length, with infinite difficulty, he disengaged himself
from the forest, just as the last glimmer of light was
yet visible in the skies. But it was in vain that he had
thus escaped ; he cast his eyes around, but could discern
nothing but an immense track of country, rough with rock?
and overhung with forests, but destitute of every mark of
cultivation or inhabitants : he however pursued his way
along the side of the mountain till he descended into a
pleasant valley, free from trees, and watered by a wind-
ing stream. Here he was going to repose for the
remainder of the night, under the crag of an impending
rock ; when a rising gleam of light darted suddenly into
the skies from a considerable distance, and attracted his
curiosity. Sophron looked towards the quarter whence
it came, and plainly discerned that it was a fire kindled
either by some benighted traveller like himself, or by
some less innocent wanderers of the dark. He deter-
mined to approach the light, but, knowing the unsettled
state of all the neighbouring districts, he thought it pru^
dent to advance with caution : he therefore made a con-
siderable circuit, and, by clambering along the higher
grounds, discovered a hanging wocd, under whose thick
covert he approacned without being discovered, within
a little distance of the fire. He then perceived that a
888 SANDFORD AND MEKTO>.
party of soldiers were reposing round a flaming pile of
wood, and carousing at their ease ; all about was strewn
the plunder which they had accumulated in their march
and in the midst was seated a venerable old man,
accompanied by a beautiful young woman.
Sophron easily comprehended, by the dejection of
iheir countenances, and the tears which trickled down the
maiden's cheeks, as well as by the insolence with which
they were treated, that they were prisoners. — The vir-
tuous indignation of his temper was instantly excited,
and he determined to attempt their deliverance : but this,
in spite of all his intrepidity, he perceived was no easy
matter to accomplish: he was alone and weakly armed ;
his enemies, though not numerous, too many for him to
flatter himself with any rational hope of success by
open force ; and, should he make a fruitless effort, he
might rashly throw his life away, and only aggravate
the distresses he sought to cure. With this considera
tion, he restrained his natural impetuosity, and, at
length, determined to attempt by stratagem, what he
thought could scarcely be performed by force. He
therefore silently withdrew, and skirted the side of the
wood which had concealed him, carefully remarking
every circumstance of the way, till he had ascended a
mountain, which immediately fronted the camp of the
soldiers, at no considerable distance. He happened to
nave by his side a kind of battle-axe which they use in
the chase of bears: with this ho applied himself to lop-
ping the branches of trees, collecting at the same time
all the fallen ones he could find ; fill in a short time he
had rearea several piles of wood upon the most con
THE PRISONERS, ETC. 389
gpicuous part of the mountain, and full in the view of
the soldiers. He then easily kindled a blaze by rubbing
two decayed branches together, and in an instant all the
piles were blazing with so many streams of light, that
the neighbouring; hills and forests were illuminated with
the gleam. Sophron knew the nature of man aiways
prone to sudden impressions of fear and terror, more
particularly amid the obscurity of the night ; and pre
mised himself the amplest success from his stratagem.
In the mean time he hastened back with all the speed
he could use, till he reached the very wood where ne
had lurked before : he then raised his voice, which was
naturally loud and clear, and shouted several times suc-
cessively with all his exertion. A hundred echoes from
the neighbouring cliffs and caverns returned the sound,
with a reverberation that made it appear like the noise
of a mighty squadron. The soldiers, who had been
alarmed by the sudden blaze of so many fires, which
they attributed to a numerous band of troops, were now
impressed with such a panic, that they fled in confusion :
they imagined themselves surrounded by their enemies,
who were bursting in on every side ; and fled with so
much precipitation, that they were dispersed in an instant,
and left the prisoners to themselves.
Sophron, who saw from a small distance all their mo
tions, did not wait for them to be undeceived, but running
to the spot they had abandoned, explained in a few words
to the trembling and amazed captives, the nature of hi9
stratagem, and exhorted them to fly with all the swift
ness they were able to exert. Few entreaties were ne
cessary to prevail upon them to comply ; they therefor*
33*
890 iANDFORD AND MERTON.
arose and foLowed Sophron, who led them a considerable
way up into the mountain, and when he thought them
out of the immediate danger of pursuit, they sheltered
themselves in a rocky cavern, and determined there to
vait for the light of the morning.
When they were thus in a place of safety, the vene-
rable old man seized the hand of Sophron, and bedewing
it with tears, gave way to the strong emotions of gra-
titude which overwhelmed his mind. ' Generous youth,'
said he, * T know not by what extraordinary fortune you
have thus been able to effect our deliverance, when we
imagined ourselves out of the reach of human succour;
but if the uniform gratitude and affection of two human
beings, who perhaps are not entirely unworthy your re-
gard, can be any recompense for such a distinguished
act of virtue, you may command our lives, and employ
them in your service.'
* Father,' answered Sophron, * you infinitely over-rate
the merits of the service which chance has enabled me
to perform. I am but little acquainted with my fellow-
creatures, as having always inhabited these mountains;
but I cannot conceive that any other man who had been
witness to your distress, would have refused to attempt
your rescue: and, as to all the rest, the obscurity of the
night, and peculiarity of the situation, rendered it a work
of little difficulty or danger-' Sophron then recounted
to his new friends the accident which had brought him
to that unfrequented spot, and made him an unperceived
witness of their captivity; he also explained the nature
of the stratagem by which alone and unsupported, he
nad been enabled to disperse their enemies. He added
THE HAPP¥ SUCCOUR. 39i
mat, if ht appeared to have any little merit in then
eyes, he should be amply recompensed by being admit-
ted to their friendship and confidence.'
With these mutual professions of esteem they thought
it prudent to terminate a conversation, which, however
agreeable, was not entirely free from danger, as some
of their late oppressors might happen to distinguish thei*
voices, and, thus directed to their lurking-place, exact a
severe revenge for the terrors they had undergone.
With the first ray of morning the three companions
arose, and Sophron, leading them along the skirts of the
mountains where brushes and brushwood concealed
them from observation, and still following the windings
of the river as a guide, they at length came to a culti-
vated spot, though deserted by its inhabitants from the
fear of the party they had lately escaped. Here they
made a slight and hasty repast upon some coarse provi-
sions which they found, and instantly struck again intc
ihe woods, which they judged safer than the plain. But
Sophron fortunately recollected, that he had formerly
visited this village with his father, while yet a child, and
before the country had suffered the rage of barbarous
invasions. It was a long day's march from home, but,
by exerting all their force, they at length arrived,
through rough and secret paths, at the hospitable cot-
tage where Sophron and his parents dwelt. Here they
«rere joyfully received, as the long absence of the young
man had much alarmed his parents, and made all the
hamlet anxious concerning his safety That night they
comfortably reposed in a place of safety, and the next
morning, aflei a plentiful but coarse repast, the father
392 SAlfDFORD A.ND MBKTON.
of Sophron again congratulated his guests upon then
fortunate escape, and entreated them to let him hear the
history of their misfortunes.
* I can refuse nothing,' said the venerable stranger
'to persons to whom I am under such extraordinary
obligations, although the history of my life is short and
simple, and contains little worthy to be recited. My
name is Chares; and I was born in one of the maritime
cities of Asia, of opulent parents, who died while I was
yet a youth. The loss of my parents, to whom I wai
most affectionately attached, made so strong an impres-
sion upon my mind, that I determined to seek relief in
travel, and, for that purpose, sold my paternal estate,
the price of which I converted into money and jewels s
as being most portable. My father had been a man dis-
tinguished for his knowledge and abilities; and from
him I imbibed an early desire of improvement, which
has always been my greatest comfort and support.
'The first place, therefore, which I visited was
Egypt, a country renowned in every age for its inven-
tion of all the arts which contribute to support or adorn
human life. There I resided several years, giving up
my time to the study of philosophy, and to the conver-
sation of the many eminent men who resorted thither
from all the regions of the world. — This country is one
immense plain, divided by the Nile, which is one of the
noblest rivers in the world, and pours its tide along the
middle of its territory. Every year, at a particular
season, the stream begins gradually to swell, with such
an increase of waters, thai at length it rises over its
(tanks and the whole extent of Egypt becomes as
THE OLD MAN'S TALE. 3P3
immense lake, where buildings, temples, and cities,
appear as floating upon the inundation. Nor is this
event a subject of dread to the inhabitants ; on the con«
trary, the overflowing of their river is a day of public
rejoicing to all the natives, which they celebrate with
songs and dances, and every symptom of extravagant
joy. Nor is this to be wondered at, when you arf
informed, that this inundation renders the soil which il
covers the most abundant in the world. Whatever land
is covered by the waters receives such an increase of
fertility as never to disappoint the hopes of the indus-
trious husbandman. The instant the waters have re-
tired, the farmer returns to his fields, and begins the
operations of agriculture. These labours are not very
difficult in a soft and yielding slime, such as the river
leaves behind it. The seeds are sown, and vegetate
with inconceivable rapidity, and, in a few weeks, an
abundant harvest of every kind of grain covers the land.
For this reason, all the necessaries of life are easily pro-
cured by the innumerable multitudes which inhabit the
country. Nor is the climate less favourable than the
soil ; for here an eternal spring and summer seem to
have fixed their abode : no frost, nor snow, is ever
known to chill the atmosphere, which is always per-
fumed with the smell of aromatic plants that grow on
every side, and bring on a pleasing forgetful ness of
human care. — But, alas ! these blessings, great as they
may appear, produce the effect of curses upon the inha-
bitants ; the ease and plenty which they enjoy enervate
their manners, and destroy ail vigour both of body an J
mind: no one is here inflamed with the sacred love of
594 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
his country, or of public liberty ; no one is inured ic
arms, or taught to prefer his honour to his life ; the
great business of existence is an inglorious indolence, a
lethargy of mind, and a continual suspense from all
exertion. The very children catch the contagion from
their parents ; they are instructed in every effeminate
art; to dance in soft, unmanly attitudes, to modulate
their voices by musical instruments, and to adjust the
floating drapery of their dress ; these are the arts in
which both sexes are instructed from their infancy : but
no one is- taught to wield the arms of men, to tame the
noble steeds in which the country abounds, to observe
his rank in war, or to bear the indispensable hardships
of a military life. Hence this celebrated country, which
has been in every age the admiration of mankind, is
destined to the most degrading servitude. A few thou
sand disciplined troops are sufficient to hold the man)
millions it contains in bondage, under which they groan,
without ever conceiving the design of vindicating their
natural rights by arms.'
* Unhappy people,' exclaimed Sophron, * how useless
to them are all the blessings of their climate ! how much
rather would I inhabit the stormy top of Lebanon, amid
eternal snows and barreness, than wallow in the vile
sensuality of such a country, or breathe the air infected
by its vices !'
Chares was charmed with the generous indignation ol
Sophron, and thus continued : — * 1 was of the same opi-
uion with yourself, and therefore determined to leave a
eountry which all its natural advantages could not ren
ier agreeable, when I became acquainted with the miiD
THE CAMEL. 891
new of its inhabitants. But, before quitted that part
of the globe, my curiosity led me to visit the neighbour,
ing tribes of Arabia ; a nation bordering upon the Egyp-
tians, but as different in spirits and manners as the hardy
shepherds of these mountains, from the effeminate natives
of the plains. Egypt is bounded on one side by the sea
—on every other it is surrounded by immense plains or
gentle eminences, which, being beyond the fertilizing in-
undations of the Nile, have been, beyond all memory,
converted into waste and barren sands by the excessive
heat of the sun. I therefore made preparations for my
journey, and hired a guide, who was to furnish me with
beasts of burthen, and accompany me across those dreary
deserts. We accordingly began our march, mounted
each upon a camel, which are found much more useful
than horses in such a burning climate.' —
* Indeed,' said Tommy here to Mr. Barlow, ' I am
sorry to interrupt the story ; but I shall be much obliged
to you, sir, if you will inform me what kind of an
animal a camel is ?'
« The camel,' answered Mr. Barlow, * is chiefly found
in those burning climates which you have heard des-
cribed. His height is very great, rising to fourteen or
fifteen feet, reckoning to the top of his head : his legs
are long and slender, his body not large, and his neck
of an amazing length. Tnis animal is found in no part
of the world that we are acquainted with, wild or free
hut the whole race is enslaved by man, and brought up
to drudgery from the first moment of their existence. As
soon as he is born, they seize him, and force him to re-
cline upon the ground, with his legs doubled up jnder
S96 SANDFORD \ND MKRTON.
his belly. To keep him in this attitude, they extend a
piece of canvass over his body, and fix it to the ground
by laying heavy weights upon the edge. In this manner
he is tutored to obedience, and taught to kneel down s?
the orders of his master, and receive the burthen which
he is destined to transport. In his temper he is gentle
and tractable, and his patience in bearing thirst and
hunger is superior to that of any anima! we are ac-
quainted with. He is driven across the burning deserts,
loaded with the merchandize of those countries, and fre-
quently does not even find water to quench his thirst for
several days. As to his food, it is nothing but a few
herbs which are found in the least barren parts of the
deserts, and prickly bushes, upon which he browzes a-
a delicacy ; sometimes he does not find even these foi
many days, yet pursues his journey with a degree of
patience which is hardly credible.'
* — We mounted our camels,' continued Chares, « and
soon had reached the confines of the fertile plains of
Egypt. The way, as we proceeded, grew sensibly more
dreary and disagreeable, yet was sometimes varied with
little tufts of trees and scanty patches of herbage : but
these at length entirely disappeared, and nothing was
seen on every side but an immense extent of barren
sands, destitute of vegetation, and parched by the con-
tinual heat of the sun. No sound was heard to interrupt
the dreary silence that reigned around, no traces of ir>.
habitants perceivable, and the gloomy uniformity of the
prospect inspired the soul with melancholy. In the
mean time, the sun seemed to shoot down perpendiculai
rays upon our heads, without a cloud to mit?^aJ» his vio
THE CAMEL. 39"
,ence I felt a burning fever take possessxon of my
body my tongue was scorched with intolerable heat
and i was in vain I endeavoured to moisten my mouth
with repeated draughts of water. At night we came to
a little rising ground, at the foot of which we perceived
some aquatic herbs and a small quantity of muddy
water, of which our camels took prodigious draughts.
Here we spread our tents, and encamped for the night.
With the morning we pursued our journey ; but had no
proceeded far, before, we saw a cloud of dust that seemed
to rise along the desert : and, as we approached nearer
we easily distinguished the glitter of arms that reflet led
the rising sun. This was a band of Arabians that had
discovered us, and came to know our intentions. As
they advanced, they spurred their horses, which are the
most fleet and excellent in the world, and bounded along
the desert with the lightness of an antelope ; at the same
time they brandished their lances, and seemed prepared
alike for war or peace. But when they saw that we had
neither the intention nor the power to commit hostilities,
th^y stopped their coursers at the distance of a few paces
from us ; and he that appeared the chief, advanced, and,
with a firm but mild tone of voice, inquired into the
reason of our coming. It was then that I took the liberty
»t addressing him in his own language, to which I had
for some time applied myself before my journey. I ex-
plained to him the curiosity which led me to observe in
person the manners of a people, who are celebrated over
the whole world, for having preserved their native sim
piicity unaltered, and their liberty un violated amidst the
revolutions which agitate all the neighbouring nation*
3
395 Sajn'OFORD and merton.
then offered to him the loading of my camel, wnich i
ftad brought, not as being worthy his acceptance, but as
a slight testimony of my regard ; and concluded with
rr marking, that the fidelity of the Arabians in observing
♦heir engagements was unimpeached in a single instance :
and therefore, relying upon the integrity of my own in-
tentions, I had come a painful journey, unarmed, and
almost alone, to put myself into their power, and demand
the sacred rights of hospitality.
' While I was thus speaking, he looked at me with a
penetration that seemed to read into my very soul ; and
when I had finished, he extended his arm with a smile
of benevolence, and welcomed me to their tribe ; telling
me at the same time, that they admitted me as their
guest, and received me with the arms of friendship ; that
their method of life, like their manners, was coarse and
simple, but that I might consider myself as safer in
their tents, and more removed from violence or treachery,
than in the crowded cities which I had left. The rest
of the squadron then approached, and all saluted me as
a friend and brother. We then struck off across the
desert, and, after a few hours' march, approached the
encampment where they had left their wives and chil
dreru
1 This people is the most singular and, in many re-
spects, the most admirable of all that inhabit this globe
of earth. All othei nations are subject to revolutions
mid the various turns of fortune sometimes they wage
luccessful wars : sometimes they improve in the arts
Df peace , now they are great, and reverenced by their
aeighbours: and now, insulted and despised, they suffer
THE ARABIANS. 39S
all the miseries or servitude. The Arabians alone have
never been known to vary in the smallest circumstances
cither of their internal policy or external situation. They
inhabit a climate which would be intolerable to the rest
of the human species for its burning heat, and a soil
which refuses to furnish any of the necessaries of life.
Hence they neither plough the earth nor sow, nor de«
pend upon corn for their sustenance, nor are acquainted
with any of the mechanic arts: they live chiefly upon
the milk of their herds and flocks, and sometimes eat
their flesh. These burning deserts are stretched out to
an immense extent on every side, and these they con-
sider as their common country, without having any
fixed or permanent place of abode. Arid and barren
as are these wilds in general, there are various spots
which are more productive than the rest : here are found
supplies of water, and some appearances of vegetation,
and here the Arabians encamp till they have exhausted
the spontaneous products of the soil. Besides, they vary
their place of residence with the different seasons of the
year. When they are in perfect friendship with their
neighbours, they advance to the very edges of the desert,
and find more ample supplies of moisture and herbage.
If they are attacked or molested, the whole tribe is in
motion in an instant, and seeks a refuge in their impene-
trable recesses. Other nations ar? involved in various
pursuits of war, or government, or commerce: they
aave made a thousand inventions of luxury necessary
to their welfare, and the enjoyment of these they call
happiness. The Arah is ignorant of all these things
or if he knows them, he despises their possessor*. Al
400 SAND FORD AND MERTON.
his wants, his passions, his desires, terminate in one
object, and that object is the preservation of his liberty.
For this purpose he contents himself with a bare suf-
fiency of the coarsest and simplest food, and the small
quantity of clothing which he requires in such a climate
is fabricated by the women of the tribe, who milk the
cattle and prepare the food of their husbands, and re-
quire no other pleasures than the pleasing interest of
domestic cares. They have a breed of horses superioi
to any in the rest of the globe for gentleness, patience,
and unrivalled swiftness : this is the particular passion
and pride of the Arabian tribes. These horses are
necessary to them in their warlike expeditions, and in
their courses along the deserts. If they are attacked,
they mount their steeds, who bear them with the rapidity
of a tempest to avenge their injuries, or, should they be
over-matched in fight, they soon transport them beyond
the possibility of pursuit. For this reason the proudest
monarchs and greatest conquerors have in vain attempted
to subdue them. Troops accustomed to the plenty of a
cultivated country are little able to pursue these winged
warriors over the whole extent of their sandy wastes.
Opprest with heat, fainting for want of water, and spent
with the various difficulties of the way, the most nume
rous armies have been destroyed in such attempts, and
ihose that survived the obstacles of nature were easily
overcome by the repeated attacks of the valiant
nutives.
1 While I was in this country, I was myself witness
lo an embassy -that was sent from a neighbouring prince,
vho imagined that the fame of his exploits had struck
THE AMBASSADOR. 40|
the Arabians with terror, and disposed them jo submis
sion. The ambassador was introduced to the chief of
the tribe, a venerable old man, undistinguished by any
mark of ostentation from the rest, who received him,
sitting cross-legged at the door of his tent. He then
began to speak, and, in a long and studied harangue,
described the power of his master, the invincible cou
rage of his armies, the vast profusion of arms, of war-
like engines, and military stores, and concluded with a
demand that the Arabians should submit to acknowledge
him as their lord, and pay a yearly tribute.
* At this proud speech the younger part of the tribe
began to frown with indignation, and clash their wea-
pons in token of defiance, but the chief himself, with
a calm and manly composure, made this reply : " 1
expected, from the maturity of your age and the gravity
of your countenance, to have heard a rational discourse,
befitting you to propose, and us to hear. When you
dwelt so long upon the power of your master, I also
imagined that he had sent to us to propose a league of
friendship and alliance, such as might become equals,
and bind man more closely to his fellow. In this case
the Arabians, although they neither want the assistance,
nor fear the attacks of any king or nation, would gladly
have consented, because it has been always their fa-
vourite maxim, neither to leave injuries unpunished, nor
to be outdone in kindness and hospitality. But since
you have come thus far to deliver a message which
must needs be disagreeable to the ears of free-born
men, who acknowledge no superior upon earth, you
may thus report the sentiments of the Arabians to him
34*
402 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
that sent you. You may tell him, that as to the land
which we inhabit, it is neither the gift of him nor any
of his forefathers : we hold it from our ancestors, who
received it in turn from theirs, by the common laws of
nature, which has adapted particular countries and soils
not only to man, but to all the various animals which
she has produced. If, therefore, your king imagines
that he has a right to retain the country which he and
his people now inhabit, by the same tenure do the Ara-
bians hold the sovereignty of these barren sands, where
.he oones of our ancestors have been buried, even from
the first foundation of the world. But vou have de-
scribed to us, in pompous language, the extraordinary
power and riches of your king : according to you, he
not only commands numerous and well-appointed troops
of warlike men, furnished with every species of military
stores, but he also possesses immense heaps of gold,
silver, and other precious commodities, and his country
affords him an inexpressible supply of corn, and oil, and
wine, and all the other conveniences of life. If, there-
fore, this representation be false, you must appear a
vain and despicable babbler, who, being induced by nc
sufficient reason, have come hither of your own accord
to amuse us, a plain and simple race of men, with spe-
cious tales and fables; but if your words be true, youi
king must be equally unjust and foolish, who., already pos*
lessing all these advantages, doth still insatiably grasr
ifler more; and, enjoying so many good things with
ease and security to himself, will rather put them all tc
the hazaid, than repress the vain desires of his own
intolerable avarice. As to the tribute which you hav*
LIBERTY. 403
demanded, what you have already seen of the Arabians
qnd their country affords you a sufficient answer. You
see that we have neither cities, nor fields, nor rivers
nor wine, nor oil : gold and silver are equally unknown
among us ; and the Arabians, abandoning all these
chings to other men, have, at the same time, delivered
ihemselves from the necessity of being slaves ; which
is the general law by which all mortals retain their
possession. — We have, therefore, nothing which we can
send as a tribute, but the sands of these our deserts, and
the arrows and lances with which we have hitherto
defended them from all invaders. If these are treasures
worthy of his acceptance, he may lead his conquering
iroops to take possession of our country. But he will
find men who are not softened by luxury, or vanquished
by their own vices : men, who prize their liberty at a
dearer rate than all other mortals do their riches or
.heir lives ; and to whom dishonour is more formidable
.han wounds and death. If he can vanquish such men
t will, however, become his prudence to reflect, whether
ne can vanquish the obstacles which nature herself has
opposed to his ambition. If he should attempt to pass
our deserts, he will have to struggle with famine and
consuming thirst, from which no enemy has hitherto
escaped, even when he has failed to perish by the
irrows of the Arabians."
' Happy and generous people,' exclaimed Sophron,
how well do they deserve the liberty they enjoy !
With su2h sentiments they need not fear the attack
of kings or conquerors. It is the vices of men, and
not the weakness of their nature, that basely enslave
404 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
them co .heir equals : and he that prizes liberty beyond
a few contemptible pleasures of his senses, may be cer
tain that no human force can ever bereave him of so
great a good.'
' Such sentiments,' replied Chares, « convince me thai
I have not made a false estimate of the inhabitants of
these mountainous districts. It is for this reason that 1
have been so particular in the description of Egypt and
Arabia. I wished to know whether the general spirit
of indolence and pusillanimity had infected the hardy
inhabitants of Lebanon : but from the generous enthu-
siasm which animates your countenance at the recital
of noble actions, as well as from what I have expe-
rienced you are capable of attempting, I trust that these
solitary scenes are uninfected with the vices that have
deluged the rest of Asia and bent its inhabitants to the
yoke.' —
Here the impatience of Tommy, which had been in-
creasing a considerable time, could no longer be re-
strained, and he could not help interrupting f he story,
Dy addressing Mr. Barlow thus : — ' Sir, will you give
me leave to ask you a question V
Mr. B. As many as you choose.
T. In all these stories which I have heard, it seems
as if those nations, that have little or nothing, are more
good-natured, and better, and braver, than those that
have a great deal.
Mr. B. This is indeed sometimes tne case.
T. But then, why should it not be the case here, as
well as in other places ? Are all the poor in this coun-
try bette'* than the rich 1
«ICH OR POOK. 4U4
1 it should seem,' answered Mr. Barlow, smiling, * ai
f you were of that opinion.'
T. Why so, sir ?
Mr. B. Because, whatever you want to have done^
I observe, hat you always address yourself to the poor,
and not to the rich ?
T. Yes, sir ; but that is a different case. The poor
are used to do many things which the rich never do.
Mr. B. Are these things useful or not useful ?
T. Why, to be sure, many of them are extremely
useful; for, since I have acquired so much knowledge,
I find they cultivate the ground, to raise corn, and
build houses, and hammer iron, which is so necessary
to make every thing we use ; besides feeding cattle, and
dressing our victuals, and washing our clothes, and,
in short, doing every thing which is necessary to be
dene.
Mr. B. What ! do the poor do all these things ?
T. Yes, indeed, or else they never would be done.
For it would be a very ungenteel thing to labour at a
forge like a blacksmith, or hold the plough like a far-
mer, or build a house like a brick-layer.
Mr. B. And did not you build a house in my garden
some little time ago 1
T. Yes, sir, but that was only for my amusement ,
il was not intended for any body to live in.
Mr. B. So you still think it is the first qualification
of a gentleman never to do any thing useful ; and he
.hat does any thing with tha- design, ceases to be a
gentleman ?
Tommy looked a little ashamed at this ; but he said
106 SANDFORD AND MERTOTV.
it was not so much his own opinion, as that of the
other y iing ladies and gentlemen with whom he had
conversed.
* But,' replied Mr. Barlow, * you asked just now,
which were the best, the rich or the poor ? But if the
poor provide food and clothing, and houses, and every
thing else, not only for themselves, but for all the rich,
while the rich do nothing at all, it must appear that the
poor are better than the rich.
T. Yes, sir ; but then the poor do not act in that
manner put of kindness, but because they are obliged
to it.
Mr. B. That, indeed, is a better argument than you
sometimes use. But tell me which set of people would
you prefer,* those that are always doing useful things
because they are obliged to it, or those who never do
any thing useful at all 1
T. Indeed, sir, I hardly know what to say : but
when I asked the question, I did not so much mean the
doing useful things. But now I think on't, the rich do
a great deal of good, by buying the things of the poor,
and giving them money in return.
Mr, B. What is money?
T. Money, sir, money is 1 believe, little pieces
of silver and gold, with a head upon them.
Mr. B. And what is the use of those little pieces of
silver and gold 1
T. Indeed, I do not know that they are of any use ,
but every body has agreed to take them: and therefore
you may buy with them whatever you want.
Mr. B. Then, according to your last account, the
KICH OR POOR. 40"«
goodness of the rich consists in taking from the poor
houses, clothes, and food, and giving them in return
little bits of silver and gold, which are really good foi
nothing.
T. Yes, sir ; but then the poor can take these piece*
of money, and purchase every thing which they want.
Mr. B. You mean, that if a poor man has money ia
his pocket, he can always exchange it for clothes, ot
food, or any other necessary ?
T. Indeed I do, sir.
Mr. B. But whom must he buy them of? for, ac-
cording to your account, the rich never produce any of
these things : therefore the poor, if they want to purchase
them, can only do so of each other.
T. But, sir, I cannot think that is always the case,
for I have been along with my mamma to shops, where
there were fine powdered gentlemen and ladies that
sold things to other people, and livery-servants, and
young ladies that played upon the harpsichord like miss
Matilda.
Mr. B. But, my good little friend, do you imagine
that these fine powdered gentlemen and ladies made the
things which they sold 1
T. That, sir, I cannot tell ; but I should rather ima-
gine not ; for, all the fine people I have ever seen ara
too much afraid of spoiling their clothes to work.
Mr. B. All that they do, then is to employ poorer
persons to work for them, while they only sell what is
produced by their labour. So that still you see we reach
no farther than this ; the rich do .nothing and produce
nothing, and the poor every thing that is really user* ji.
408 8ANDFOKD AND MERTOS.
Were there a whole nation of rich people, they would
ill be starved like the Spaniard in the story, because no
one would condescend to produce any thing: and this
would happen in spite of all their money, unless they
had neighbours who were poorer to supply them. But
a nation that was poor might be industrious, and gra-
dually supply themselves with all they wanted ; and
then it would be of little consequence whether they had
pieces of metal with heads upon them or not. But this
conversation has lasted long enough at present; and,
as you are now going to bed, I dare say miss Simmons
will be so good as to defer the remainder of her story
until to-morrow.
The next day Tommy rose before his father and
mother ; and, as his imagination had been forcibly acted
on by the description he had heard of the Arabian horse-
man, he desired his little horse might be saddled, and
that William, his father's man, would attend him upon
a ride. Unfortunately for Tommy, his vivacity was
greater than his reason, and his taste for imitation was
continually leading him into some mischief or misfor
tune. He had no sooner been introduced into the ac-
quaintance of genteel life, than he threw aside an nis
former habits, and burnt to distinguish himself as a most
accomplished young gentleman. He was now, in turn
sickened and disgusted with fashionable affectation ; and
his mind, at leisure for fresh impressions, was ready to
catch at the first new object which occurred. The idea,
therefore, which presents itself to his mind, as soon as
he opened his eyes, was that of being an Arabian rurse.
man. Nothing, he imagined, could equal the pleasure
K0RSEM.AN8HIP. 40 r 3
M guiding a fiery steed over 'hose immense and desolate
wastes which he had heard described. In the mean
time, as the country where he wished to exhibit was
rather at too great a distance, he thought he might ex
cite some applause even upon the common before hi?
father's house.
Full of this idea, he rose, pit on h ; s boots, and sum-
moned William to attend hirn. William had been too
much accustomed to tumour all his caprices, to make
any difficulty of obeying him ; and as he had often rid-
den out with his young master before, he did not foresee
the least possible inconvenience. But the maternal care
of .Mrs. Merton had made it an indispensable condition
with her son, that he should never presume to ride with
spurs ; and she had strictly enjoined all the servants
never to supply him with those dangerous implements.
Tommy had iong murmured in secret al this prohibi-
tion, which seemed to imply a distrust of his abilities in
rr: sernanship, which sensibly wounded his oride. But
3ince he had taken it into his head to emulate the Arabs
themselves, and perhaps excel them in 'heir own art, he
ioa-idered it as no longer possible to endure the dis-
grace. But, as he was no stranger to the strict injunc-
lion. which had been given to all the servants, he aid
not dare to make the experiment of soliciting their as-
sistance.
While he was in this embarrassment, a new and
sudden expedient presented itself to his fertile genius,
which he instantly resolved to adopt. Tommy went to
his mamma's maid, and, without difficulty, obtained from
n^r a couple of the largest sized pins, which he thrus!
IB
410 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
through the leather of his boots : and thus accoutred, ha
mounted his horse without suspicion or observation.
Tommy had not ridden far, before he began to give
vent to his reigning passion, and asked William if he
had ever seen an Arabian on horseback ? The answer
of William sufficiently proved his ignorance, which
Tommy kindly undertook to remove by giving him a
detail of all the particulars he had heard the preceeding
night : but, unfortunately, the eloquence of Tommy pre-
cipitated him into a dangerous experiment ; for, just as
he was ■ describing their rapid flight across the deserts,
the interest of his subject so transported him, that he
closed his legs upon his little horse, and pricked him in
so sensible a manner, that the poney, who was not defi-
cient in spirit, resented the attack, and set off with him
at a prodigious rate.
William, when he saw his master thus burst forth,
was at a loss whether to consider it as an accident, or
only an oratorical grace : but seeing the horse hurrying
along the roughest part of the common, while Tommy
tugged in vain to restrain his efforts, he thought it ne-
cessary to endeavour to overtake him, and therefore pur-
sued him with all the speed he could use. But the poney,
whose blood seemed to be only the more inflamed by the
violence of his own exertions, ran the faster when he
heard the trampling of another horse behind him.
In this manner did Tommy scamper over the com-
mon, while Willian? pursued in vain : for, just as the
fervant thought he had reached his master, his horse
would push forward with sucn rapidity as left hi* our-
wier far behind. Pommy kept his seat with inmVt*
THE RACE. 41 i
address : but be v >w began seriously to repent of hii
own ungovernable ambition, and would, with the great
est pleasure have exchanged his own spirited steed for
for the dulJest as'i in England.
The race had now endured a considerate time, and
■eemed to be no ne'irer to a conclusion ; when on a sudden,
the poney turned short, upon an attempt of his master
to stop him, and rushed precipitately into a large bog, or
quagmire, which was full before him : here he made a
momentary halt, and Tommy wisely embraced the op-
portunity of letting himself slide off upon a soft and
yielding bed of mire. The servant now came up to
Tommy, und rescued him from his disagreeable situa-
tion ; where, however, he had received no other damage
than that of daubing himself all over.
William had been at first very much frightened at the
danger of his master ; but when he saw that he had sc
luckily escaped all hurt, he could not help asking him,
with a smile, whether this too was a stroke of Arabian
horsemanship ! Tommy was a little provoked at this
reflection upon his horsemanship, but, as he had now
lost something of his irritability by repeated mortification,
he wisely repressed his passion, and d«sired William to
catch his horse, while he returned homewards on foot to
warm himself. The servant, thorefore, endeavoured to
approach the poney who, as if contented with the
triumph he had obtained over his rider, was quietly feed-
ing at a little distance ; but the instant William approach
ed, he set off again at a violent rate, and seemed dis.
posed to lead him a second chase, not inferior to the
firat.
412 SATCPFOTH) AND MEKTON.
In the mean time Tommy walked pensively along th«
common, reflecting on the various accidents whicn
had befallen him, and the repeated disappointments ne
had found in all his attempts to distinguish himself.
While he was thus engaged, he overtook a poor and
ragged figure, the singularity of whose appearance en-
gaged his attention. It was a man of middle age, in a
dress he had never seen before, with two poor children
that seemed with difficulty to keep up with him, while he
carried a third in his arms, whose pale, emaciated looks,
sufficiently declared disease and pain. The man had
upon his head a coarse blue bonnet instead of a hat ; he
was wrapped round by a tattered kind of garment,
striped with various colours ; and, at his side, hung down
a long and formidable sword.
Tommy surveyed him with such an earnest observa-
tion, that at length the man took notice of it ; and, bow-
ing to him with the greatest civility, ventured to ask him
if he had met with any accident, that he appeared in a
disorder which suited so little with his quality 1 T ommy
was not a little pleased with the discernment of the man,
who could distinguish his importance in spite of the
dirtiness of his clothes, and therefore mildly answered,
1 No, friend, there is not much the matter. I have a little
obstinate horse that ran away with me, and, after trying
in vain to throw me down, he plunged into the middle
of that great bog there, and so I jumped off for fear of
being swallowed up, otherwise I should soon have made
him submit for I am used to such things, and don't nind
them in the least.'
Here the child, that the man was carrying, began tf
CHARITY. 413
cry bitterly, and the father endeavoured to pacify him,
Dut in vain. { Poor thing,' said Tommy, ' he seems to
be unwell : I am heartily sorry for him !' — ' Alas,
master,' answered the man, < he is not well, indeed ; ht
has now a violent ague fit upon him, and I have not
had a morsel of bread to give him, or any of the rest,
since yesterday noon.'
Tommy was naturally generous, and now his mind
was unusually softened by the remembrance of his own
recent distresses : he therefore pulled a coin out of his
pocket, and gave it to the man, saving, ' Here my
honest friend, here is something to buy your child some
food, and I sincerely wish he may soon recover.' —
4 God bless your sweet face !' said the man, * you are
the best friend I have seen this many a day ; but for
this kind assistance we might have been all lost.' He
then, with many bows and thanks, struck across the
common into a different path, and Tommy went for-
ward, feeling a greater pleasure at this little act of
humanity, than he had long been acquainted with among
all the fine acquaintance he had lately contracted.
But he had walked a very little way with these
reflections, before he met with a new aaventure. A
flock of sheep was running with all the precipitation
which fear could inspire, from the pursuit of a large
dog ; and just as Tommy approached, the dog had
overtaken a lamb, and seemed disposed to devour it.
Tommy was naturally an enemy to all cruelty, and
therefore, running towards the dog, with more alacrity
than prudence, he endeavoured to drive him from his
prey ; but the animal, who probably despised the dimin-
35*
414 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
utive size of his adversary, after growling a little wniit
and showing his teeth, when he found that this was not
sufficient to deter him from intermeddling, entirely
quitted the sheep, and, making a sudden spring, seized
upon the skirt of Tommy's coat, which he shook with
every expression of rage. Tommy behaved with more
intrepidity than could have been expected : for he neither
cried out, nor attempted to run, but made his utmost
efforts to disengage himself from his enemy. But as
the contest was so unequal, it is probable he would
have been severely bitten, had not the honest stranger,
whom he had relieved, come running up to his assist-
ance, and, seeing the danger of his benefactor, laid the
dog dead at his feet by a furious stroke of his broad-
sword.
Tommy, thus delivered from impending danger, ex-
pressed his gratitude to the stranger in the most affec
tionate manner, and desired him to accompany him to
his father's house, where he and his wearied children
should receive whatever refreshment they wished. He
then turned his eyes to the lamb which had been the
cause of the contest, and lay panting upon the ground,
bleeding and wounded, but not to death, and remarked,
with astonishment, upon his fleece, the well-known
characters of H. S., accompanied with a cross, « As I
live,' said Tommy, * I believe this is the very lamb
which Harry used to be so fond of, and which would
sometimes follow him to Mr. Barlow's. I am the luck,
iest fellow in the world, to have come in time to deliver
nim ; and now. perhaps, Harry may forgive me all the
ll-usage he has met with.' Saying this, he took the
THE RESCTTEQ LAMB. 41>
amb up and kissed it with the greatest tenderness'
nay, he would have even borne it home in his arms
had it not been rather too heavy for his strength • but
the honest stranger, with a grateful officiousness, offered
!jls services, and prevailed on Tommy to let him carry
it, while he delivered his child to the biggest of his
brothers.
When Tommy was now arrived within a little dis-
tance of his home, he met his father and Mr. Barlow
who had left the house to enjoy the morning air before
breakfast. They were surprised to see him in such an
equipage : for the dirt, which had bespattered him from
head to foot, began to dry in various places, and gave
him the appearance of a farmer's clay-built wall in the
act of hardening. But Tommy, without giving them
time to make inquiries, ran affectionately up to Mr. Bar-
low, and, taking him by the hand, said, * Oh, sir ! here
is the luckiest accident in the world ! poor Harry Sand-
ford's favourite lamb would have been killed by a
great mischievous dog, if I had not happened to come
by and save his life !' — ' And who is this honest man,
said Mr. Merton, 'whom you have picked up on the
common ? He seems to be in distress, and his famished
children are scarcely able to drag themselves along. - -
* Poor man !' answered Tommy, * I am very much
obliged to him ; for, when I went to save Harry's lamb
the dog attacked me, and would have hurt me very
much, \f he had not come o my assistance, and killed
him with his great sword. So I have brought him with
me, that he might refresh himself with his poor children,
ime of which ha« a terrible ague ; for I knew, papa
#16 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
that though I had not behaved well of late, you wouhi
not be against my doing an act of charity.' — *I am, on
.he contrary, very glad,' said Mr. Merton, * to see you
have so much gratitude in your temper. But what is the
reason that 1 see you thus disfigured with dirt? Surely
you must have been riding, and your horse has thrown
joul And so it is; for here is William following, with
both the horses in a foam.'
William at that moment appeared ; and, trotting up
to his master, began to make excuses for his own share
in the business. Indeed, sir,' said he, *I did not think
there was the least harm in going out with master
Tommy, and we were riding along as quietly as possi-
ble, and master was giving me a long account of the
Arabs, who, he said, lived in the finest country in the
world, which does not produce any thing to eat, or
drink, or wear; and yet they never want to come upon
me parisn, but ride upon the most mettled horses in the
world, fit to start for any plate in England. And just
as he was giving me this account, Punch took it into his
head to run away, and while T was endeavouring to
catch him, he jumped into a quagmire, and shot master
Tommy off in the middle of it.'—' No,' said Tommy,
1 there you mistake; I believe I could manage a much
more spirited horse than Punch, but I thought it prudent
to throw myself off, for fear of his plunging deeper into
he mire.' — But how is this V said Mr. Merton, ' the
pony used to be the quietest of horses ; what can have
given him this sudden impulse to run away ? Surely
William, you were not so imprudent as to trust you?
master with spurs ?' — * No, sir,' answered William
THE STRANGER. 417
aot I ; and I can take my oath he nad no spurs on
when we first set out.'
Mr. Merton was convinced there was some mystery
in this transaction, and, looking at his son to find it out,
he at length discovered the ingenious contrivance of
Tommy to supply the place of spurs, and could hardly
preserve his gravity at the sight. He however mildly
set before him his imprudence, which might have been
attended with the most fatal conseqaences, the fracture
of his limbs, or even the loss of his life ; and desired him
for the future to be more cautious. They then returned
to the house, and Mr. Merton ordered the servants to
supply his guests with plenty of the most nourishing
food.
After breakfast they sent for the unhappy stranger
into the parlour, whose countenance now bespoke his
satisfaction and gratitude : and Mr Merton, who by his
dress and accent discovered him to be an inhabitant of
Scotland, desired to know by what accident he had thus
wandered so far from home with these poor helpless
children, and had been reduced to so much misery?
4 Alas ! your honour,' answered the man, * I should
dl-deserve the favours you have shown me, if I at-
tempted to conceal any thing from such worthy bene,
factors. My tale, however, is simple and uninteresting,
and I fear their can be nothing in the story of my dis-
tress, the least deserving of your attention.'
1 Surely,' said Mr. Merton, with the most benevolent
courtesy, ' there must be something in the distress of
every honest man which ought to interest his fellow
ireatires • and if you will acquaint us with all the ci*
418 SANDFOKD AND MERTOiN
eumstances of your situation, it may perhaps be withii
our power, as it certainly is in our inclinations, to do you
farther service.'
The man then bowed to the company with an air of
dignity which surprised them all ; and thus began • —
' I was born in that part of our island which is called
the North of Scotland. The country there, partly from the
barreness of the soil, and the inclemency of the season,
and partly from other causes which I will not now enu-
merate, is unfavourable to the existence of its inhabi-
tants. More than half the year our mountains are co-
vered with continual snows, which prohibit the use of
agriculture, or blast the expectations of a harvest. Yet
the race of men which inhabit these dreary wilds are,
perhaps, not more undeserving the smiles of fortune than
many of their happier neighbours. Accustomed to a
life of toil and hardship, their bodies are braced by the
incessant difficulties they have to encounter, and their
minds remain untainted by the example of their more
luxurious neighbours ; they are bred up from infancy
with a deference and respect for their parents, and with
a mutual spirit of endearment towards their equals,
which I have not remarked in happier climates. These
circumstances expand and elevate the mind, and attach
the Highlanders to their native mountains with a warmth
of affection which is scarcely known in the midst of
polished cities and cultivated countries. Every man
is more or less acquainted with the history of his clan,
and the martial exploits which they have performed. In
the winter season we sit around the blazing light of oui
fires and commemorate the glorious actions of our an
the Highlander's tale. 41 S
*estors : the children catch the sound, and consider
themselves as interested in supporting the honour of
a nation, which is yet unsullied in the annals of the
world, and resolve to transmit it equally pure to then
losterity.
4 With these impressions, which were the earliest
[ can remember, you cannot wonder, gentlemen, that
I should early imbibe a spirit of enterprize and a love
of arms. My father was, indeed, poor, but he had been
himself a soldier, and therefore did not so strenuously
oppose my growing inclinations : he, indeed, set before
me the little chance T should have of promotion, and the
innumerable difficulties of my intended profession. But
what were difficulties to a youth brought up to subsist
upon a handful of oatmeal, to drink the waters of the
stream, and to sleep, shrouded in my plaid, beneath the
arch of an impending rock ! I see, gentleman/ con-
tinued the Highlander,' ' that you appear surprised to
hear a man, who has so little to recommend him, ex-
press himself in rather loftier language than you are
accustomed to among your peasantry here. But you
should remember, that a certain degree of education is
more general in Scotland than where you live ; and
that, wanting almost all the gifts of fortune, we cannot
afford to suffer those of nature to remain uncultivated.
When, therefore, my father saw that the determined bent
)f my temper was towards a military life, he thought it
vain to oppose my inclinations. He even, perhaps, in-
voluntarily cherished them, by explaining to me, during
the long leisure of our dreary winter, some books which
treated of military sciences and ancient history, From
*20 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
these I imbibed an early love of truth and honour, whit'.
[ hope has not abandoned me since, and, by teaching
me what brave and virtuous men have suffered in everv
age and country, they have, perhaps, prevented me fron,
sntirely sinking under my misfortunes.
' One night in the autumn of the year, as we were
seated round the embers of our fire, we heard a knock
ing at the door. My father rose ; and a man of a ma
jestic presence came in, and requested permission .0
pass the night in our cottage. He told us he was an
English officer who had long been stationed in the high-
lands ; but now, upon the breaking out of war, he had
been sent for in haste to London, whence he was to em-
bark for America as soon as he could be joined by his
regiment. " This," said he, " has been the reason of my
travelling later than prudence permits, in a mountainous
country with which I am perfectly acquainted. I have
unfortunately lost my way, and, but for your kindness,"
dded he, smiling, " I must here begin my campaign,
and pass the night upon a bed of heath amid the moun-
tains." My father rose, and received the officer with
all the courtesy he was able ; (for in Scotland every man
thinks himself honoured by being permitted to exercise
his hospitality) he told him his accomodations were mean
and poor, but what he had was heartily at his service.
H<; then sent me to look after his visitor's horse, and set
before him some milk and oaten bread, which were all
!he dainties we possessed : our guest, however, seemeo
to feed upon it with an appetite as keen as if he had been
educated in the highlands; and, what I r>uld not help
remarking with astonishment, although his air and man
THE HIGHLANDER'S TALE. 421
ners proved that he could be no stranger to a more deli-
cate way of living, not a single wcrd fell from him that
intimated he had ever been used to better fare.
1 During the evening, our guest entertained us with
various accounts of the dangers he had already escaped,
and the service he had seen. He particularly described
the manners of the savage tribes he was going to en-
counter in America, and the nature of their warfare. All
this, accompanied with the tone and look of a man who
was familiar with great events, and had borne a con-
siderable share in all he related, so inflamed my military
ardour, that I was no longer capable of repressing it.
The stranger perceived it, and, looking at me with an
air of tenderness and compassion, asked if that young
man was intended for the service? My colour rose, and
my heart immediately swelled at the question : the look
and manner of our guest had strangely interested me in
his favour, and the natural grace and simplicity with
which he related his own exploits, put me in mind of the
great men of other times. Could I but march under the
banners of such a leader, I thought nothing would be too
arduous to be achieved. I saw before me a long per-
spective of combats, difficulties, and dangers; something,
however, whispered to my mind that I should be suc-
cessful in the end, and support the reputation of our name
and clan. Full of these ideas, I sprang forwards at the
question, and told the officer, that the darling r^ssion
of my life would be to bear arms under a chief like him
and that, if he would suffer me to enlist under his com-
mand, [ should be ready to justify his kindness by pa
tiently supporting every hardship, and facing every dar
36
i22 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
ger. " Young man," replied he, with a look of kind
concern, " there is not an officer in the army that would
not be proud of such a recruit; but I should ill betray
the hospitality I have received from your parents, if \
suffered you to be deceived in your opinion of the mili^
tary profession." He then set before me, in the strong-
est language, all the hardships which would be my lot ;
the dangers of the field, the pestilence of camps, the slow
consuming languor of hospitals, the insolence of com-
mand, the mortification of subordination, and the uncer*
tainty that the exertions of even a long life would ever
lead to the least promotion. "All this," replied I, trem-
bling with fear that my father should take advantage of
these too just representations to refuse his consent, " I
knew before ; but I feel an irresistible impulse within
me which compels me to the field. The die is cast for
life or death, and I will abide by the chance that now
occurs. If you, sir, refuse me, I will, however, enlis!
with the first officer that will accept me ; for I will no
longer wear out life amid the solitude of these surround-
ing mountains, without even a chance of meriting ap-
plause, or distinguishing my name."
' The officer then desisted from his opposition, and,
turning to my parents, asked them if it were with their
consent that I was going to enlist ? My mother burst
into tears, and my sisters hung about me weeping: my
fatner replied with a deep sigh, " T have long experienced
ihat it is. vain to oppose the decrees of Providence.
Could my persuasions have availed, he would have re
mained contented in these mountains, but that is now im
Dossible ; at least, till he has purchased wisdom at Um
the Highlander's tale. 428
price of his blood. If, therefore, sir, you do not despise
his youth and mien, take him with you, and let him have
the advantage of your example. I have been a soldier
myself, and I can assure you, with truth, that I have
never seen an officer under whom I would more gladly
march than yourself." Our guest made" a polite reply
t« my father, and instantly agreed to receive me. He
then pulled out a purse, and offering it to my father,
said, " The common price of a recruit is now five guineas ,
but so well am I satisfied with the appearance of your
son, and the confidence you repose in me, that I must
insist upon your accepting what is contained in this
purse : you will dispose of it as you please, for your
mutual advantage. Before I depart to-morrow, I will
give such directions as may enable him to join the regi-
ment, which is now preparing to march." He then
requested that he might retire to rest, and my father
would have resigned the only bed he had in the house
to his guest, but he absolutely refused and said, " Would
you shame me in the eyes of my new recruit? What
is a soldier good for, that cannot sleep u ithout a bed?
The time will soon arrive when I shall think a comfort-
able roof and a little straw an enviable luxury." 1
therefore raised him as convenient a couch as I was able
to make with heath and straw ; and, wrapping himself
jp in his riding-coat, he threw himself down upon it,
ind slept till morning. With the first dawn of day he
rose and departed, having first given me the directions
which were necessary to enable me to join the regiment :
jut, before he went, my father, who was equally charmed
with his generosity and manners, pressed him to taka
424 SANDFORD AND M«RTON.
back part of the money he had given us ; this, howevei
he absolutely refused, and left us, full of esteem ant
admiration.
* I will not, gentlemen, repeat the affecting scene 1
had to undergo in taking leave of my family and friends.
It pierced me to the very heart ; and then, for the first
time, I almost repented of being so near the accomplish-
ment of my wishes. I was however engaged, and de
termined to fulfil my engagement: I therefore tore
myself from my family, having with difficulty prevailed
upon my father to accept of part of the money I had
received for my enrolment. I will not trespass upon
your time to describe the various emotions which I felt
from the crowd of new sensations that entered my mind
during our march. I arrived without any accident in
London, the splendid capital of this kingdom : but I could
aot there restrain my astonishment, to see an immense
people talking of wounds, of death, of battles, sieges,
and conquests, in the midst of feasts, and balls, and puppet
ihows ; and calmly devoting thousands of their fellow-
creatures to perish by famine or the sword, while they
considered the loss of a dinner, or the endurance of a
shower, as an exertion too great for human fortitude.
* I soon embarked, and arrived, without any other
accident than a horrible sickness, at the place of oui
destination in America. Here I joined my gallant ofh
ecr, colonel Simmons, who had performed the voyage in
another ship. — (Miss Summons, who was present at tha
narration, seemed to be much interested at this mention
of her own name ; she, however, did not express hei
feelings, and the stranger proceeded with his story.)
AMERICA. 126
The gentleman was, with justice, the most oeiovea, and
the most deserving to be so, of any officer I have ever
known. Inflexible in every thing that concerned the
honour of the service, he never pardoned wilful misbe*
haviour , because he knew that it was incompatible with
military discipline: yet, when obliged to punish, he did
it with such reluctance, that he seemed to suffer almost
as much as the criminal himself. But, if his reason
imposed this just and necessary severity, his heart had
taught him another lesson in respect to private dis-
tresses of his men ; he visited them in their sickness,
relieved their miseries, and a niggard of nothing but hu
man blood — But I ought to correct myself in that ex-
pression for he was rashly lavish of his own ; and to
that we owe his untimely loss.
* I had not been long in America before the colonel,
who was perfectly acquainted with the language and
manners of the savage tribes, that border upon the
British colonies, was sent on an embassy to one of their
nations, for the purpose of soliciting their alliance with
Britain. It may not, perhaps, be uninteresting to you,
gentlemen, and to this my honourable little master, to
hear some account of a people, whose manners and
customs are so much the reverse of what you see at
home. As my worthy officer, therefore, contented
with my assiduity and improvement in military know-
ledge, permitted me to have the honour of attending hirn,
I will describe some of the most curious facts which I
uras witness to.
* You have, doubtless, heard many accounts -of th€
surprising increase of the English colonies in America
38*
426 SANDFORD AND MERTOW.
and, when we reflect that it is scarcely a hundred yean
since some of them were established, it must be con*
fessed that they have made rapid improvements in
clearing the ground of woods, and bringing it to culti-
vation. Yet, much as they have already done, the»
country is yet an immense forest, except immediately
upon the coasts. The forests extend on every side, to a
distance that no human sagacity or observation has
been able to determine : they abound in every species
of tree which you see in England ; to which may be
added a great variety more, which are unknown with
us. Under their shade is generally found a rich luxu-
rious herbage, which serves for pasture to a thousand
herds of animals. Here are seen elks, (a kind of deer
of the largest size,) and buffaloes, (a species of wild
ox,) by thousands, and even horses, which, having
been originally brought over by the Spaniards, have
escaped from their settlements, and multiplied in the
woods.' —
* Dear,' said Tommy, * that must be a fine country,
indeed, where horses run wild ; why, a man might
have one for nothing.' — * And yet,' said Mr. Merton,
* it would be but of little use for a person to have a wild
horse, who is not able io manage a tame one.'
Tommy made no answer to his father ; and the man
proceeded — ' But the greatest curiosity of all this country
is, in my opinion, the various tribes or nations which
inhabit it. Bred up from their infancy to a life of equal
hardiness with the wild animals, they are almost as ro-
bust in their constitutions. These various tribes inhabit
little villages, which generally are seated upon the banki
THE TRIBES. 427
ftf rivers ; and. though they cultivate small portions o?
.and arouna their towns, they seek the greater part of
heir subsistence from the chace In their persons they
are rather tall and slender, but admirably well propor-
tioned and active, and their colour is a pale red, exactly
resembling copper. Thus accustomed to roam about
the woods, and brave the inclemencies of the weather,
as well as continually exposed to the attacks of their
enemies, they acquire a degree of courage and forti-
tude, which can scarcely be conceived. It is nothing to
them to pass whole days without food ; to lie whole
nights upon the bare damp ground, and to swim the
videst rivers in the depth of winter. Money, indeed,
and the greater part of what we call the conveniences
of life, they are unacquainted with ; nor can they con-
ceive that one man should serve another merely because
he has a few pieces of shining metal : they imagine,
that the only distinctions arise from superior courage,
and bodily perfections ; and therefore these alone are
able to engage their esteem. I shall never forget the
contempt which one of their chiefs expressed at seeing
an officer who was rather corpulent at the head of hit
men: "What fools," said he, "are these Europeans,
to be commanded by a man who is so unwieldy tha'
he can neither annoy his enemies, nor defend his friends,
and who is only fit to be a scullion '" When they are
nt peace, they exercise the virtue of hospitality to a
degree that might <shame more polished nations : if a
-ranger arrives at any of their towns, he enters inlo
i^e first habitation he pleases, and is sure to be enter
Lamed with all that the family possess. In this mannei
*28 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
ie might journey from one end of the continent to tne
other, and never fail of a friendly reception.
But if their manners are gentle in peace, they ar«
more dreadful, when provoked, than all the wildest ant.
aials of the forest. Bred up from infancy to suffer no
restraint, and to give an unbounded loose to all their
passions, they know not what it is to forgive an injury.
They love their tribe with a degree of affection that is
totally unknown in every other country : for that the^
are ready to suffer every hardship and danger. Wounds,
and pain, and death, they despise, as often as the inte-
rest of their country is concerned, but the same attach-
ment renders them implacable and unforgiving to all
their enemies. In short, they seem to have all the vir-
tues and the vices of the ancient Spartans.
' To one of these tribes, called the Ottigamies, was
Colonel Simmons sent ambassador, accompanied by a
few more officers, and some private men, among whom
I had the honour to be included. We pursued our
march, for several days, through forests which seemed
to be of equal duration with the world itself. Some-
times we Were shrouded in such obscurity from the
thickness of the covert, that we could scarcely see the
ight of heaven ; sometimes we emerged into spacious
meadows, bare of trees, and covered with the most
luxuriant herbage, on which were feeding immense
herds of buffaloes. These, as soon as they snuffed the
approach of men, which they are capable of doing even
at a considerable distance, ran with precipitation into the
surrounding woods: many, however, fell beneath our
attack, and served us for food during our journey. A
THE TRIBES.
429
^jngth we came to a wide and rapid river, upon whose
L»anks we found a party of friendly savages, with some
of whom we embarked upon canoes made of the bark
of trees, to proceed to the country of the Ottigamies.
4 After three days incessant rowing, we entered a
spacious lake, upon whose banks were encamped a
considerable portion of the nation we sought. As we
approached the shore, they saluted us with a volley of
balls from their muskets, which whistled just above our
heads, without producing mischief. I and several of
the soldiers instantly seized our arms, imagining it to be
an hostile attack; but our leader quieted our apprehen-
sions by informing us, that this was only a friendly
salute with which a nation of warriors received and
welcomed their allies. We landed, and were instantly
conducted to the assembly of the chiefs, who were sit-
ting upon the ground, without external pomp or cere-
mony, with their arms beside them : but there was in
their countenances and eyes an expression of ferocious
grandeur which would have daunted the boldest Eu-
ropean. Yes, gentlemen, I have seen the greatest and
most powerful men in my own country ; I have seen
them adorned with every external circumstance of
dress, of pomp, and equipage, to inspire respect, but
never did I see any thing which so completely awed the
soul, as the angry s-°owl and fiery glance of a savage
American.
' As soon as our leader entered the circle, he produced
she calumet, or pipe of peace. This is the universa,
mark of friendship and alliance among all the barbarous
nations of America, and he that bears it is considered
430 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
with so much respect, that his person is always safe
This calumet is nothing but a long and slender pipe, or
namented with the most lively and beautiful featners
which are ingeniously fixed along the tube ; the bole is
composed of a peculiar kind of reddish marble, and filled
with scented herbs and tobacco.
1 Colonel Simmons lighted his pipe with great solem-
nity, and turning the bole first towards the heavens, then
to the earth, then in a circle round him, he began to
smoke. In the meantime the whole assembly sat with mute
attention, waiting to hear his proposals. For, though we
call them savages yet in some respects they well deserve
to be imitated by more refined nations : in all their meet,
ings and assemblies the greatest order and regularity
prevail ; whoever rises to speak is sure of being patiently
heard to the end without the least interruption.
' Our leader then began to harangue them in theii
own language, with which he was well acquainted. 1
did not understand what passed, but it was afterwards
explained to me that he set before their eyes the injuries
they had mutually received from the French and the
tribes in their alliance. He told them that their great
father, for so these people cal 1 the king of Great Bri
tain, had taken up the hatchet oi war, and was sending
an innumerable band of warriors to punish the insults
of his enemies. He told them that he had orderea him
to visit the Ottigamies, his dutiful children, and smoke
with them the pipe of peace. He invited their young
men to join the warriors that came from beyond the
ocean, and who were marching to bury the bones
of their brethren, who Aad been killed by their mutus
AMERICANS. 4dJ
foes. When he had concluded, he flung upon the
ground a curious string of shells, which is called the
belt of Wampum. This is a necessary circumstance
in all the treaties made with these tribes. Whoever
comes as an ambassador brings one with him to pre
sent to the people whose friendship is solicted ; and. if
the belt is accepted, the proposed alliance is considerea
as entered into
* As soon as our leader had finished, a chief of a sta-
ture superior to the common race of men, and of a most
determined look, jumped into the middle of the assembly,
and taking up the belt, cried out in their language —
" Let us march, my brethren, with the voung men of
our great father ! Let us dig up the hatchet of war,
and revenge the bones of our countrymen ; they lie un-
buried, and cry to us for vengeance ! We will not be
deaf to their cries: we will shake off all delays; we
will approve ourselves worthy of our ancestors; we wil !
Hrink the blood of our enemies, and spread a feast of
carnage for the fowls of the air and the wild beasts of
the forest." This resolution was universally approved
by the whole nation, who consented to the war with a
ferocious joy. The assembly was then dissolved, ana
the chiefs prepared for their intended march according
«o the manner of the country.
* All the savage tribes that inhabit America are accus-
tomed to very little clothing. Inured to the inclemencies
of the weather, and being in the constant exercise of nl'.
their limbs, they cannot bear the restraint and confine-
ment of an European dress. The greater part of they
132 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
bodies, therefore, is naked ; and this they paint \n
various fashions, to give additional terror to their looks,
' When the chiefs were thus prepared, they came
from their tents ; and the last solemnity I was witness
\o. was dancing the dance of war, and singing the song
}f death. But what words can convey an adequate
idea of the furious movements and expressions which
animated them through the whole of this performance?
Every man was armed with a kind of hatchet, which is
their usual weapon in battle, and called a. tomahawk.
This he held in his hand, and brandished through the
whole of the dreadful spectacle. As they went on,
their faces kindled into an expression of anger which
would have daunted the boldest spectator; their gestures
seemed to be inspired by frantic rage, and implacable
■animosity : they moved their bodies with the most vio-
lent agitations, and it was easy to see they represented
all the circumstances of a real combat. They seemed
to be engaged in close or distant battle, and brandished
their weapons with so much fury, that you would have
imagined they were going every instant to hew each
other to pieces ; nor would it have been possible, even
for the performers themselves of this terrific dance, to
have avoided mutual wounds and slaughter, had they
not been endued with that extraordinary activity which
is peculiar to savage nations. By intervals, they in-
creased the horrid solemnity of the exhibition, by utter
ihg yells that would have pierced an European ear with
horror. I have seen rage and fury under various
'orms, and in different parts of the globe : but 1 mus'
confess, that every thing I have seen elsewhere is feeble
AMERICANS. 433
and contemptible when compared w ith this day's spec-
tacle. When the whole was finished, they entertained
us at a public festival in their cabins ; ana, when we
departed, dismissed us with these expressive wishes ;
they prayed that the Great Spirit would favour us with
a prosperous voyage , that he would give us an un-
clouded sky and smooth waters by day, and that we
might lie down at night on a beaver blanket, enjoying
uninterrupted sleep and pleasant dreams ; and, that we
might find continual protection under the great pipe of
peace. I have been thus particular (said the High-
lander) in describing the circumstances of this embassy,
because you have not disdained to hear the story of my
adventures : and I thought that this description of a
people so totally unlike all you have been accustomed
lo in Europe might not prove entirely uninteresting.' —
* We are much obliged to you,' said Mr. Barlow, ' for
all these curious particulars, which are perfectly con-
formable to all I have heard and read upon the subject.
Nor can I consider, without a certain degree of admira-
tion, the savage grandeur of man in his most simple
state. The passion for revenge, which marks the cha-
racter of all uncivilized nations, is certainly to be con-
demned. But it is one of the constant prejudices of
their education ; and many of those that call themselves
refined, have more to blush at, in that respect, than they
are aware of. Few, I am afraid, even in the most
refined state of society, have arrived at that sublime
generosity, which is able to forgive the injuries of his
fellow-creatures, when it has the power to repay them ;
and I see many around me that are disgraced by the
*7
434 SAitDFORD ANP MERTON.
*^ices of uncivilized Americans, without a claim to then
virtues.'
i I will not fatigue your ears,' continued the Highlan.
aer ; « with the recital of all the events T was engaged
in during the progress of the war. The description of
blood and carnage is always disagreeable to a humane
mind: and, though the perversity of mankind may
sometimes render war a necessary evil, the remembrance
of its mischiefs is always painful. I will only mention
one event continually lamented in the annals of this
country, because it is connected with the untimely fate
}f my noble friend and gallant leader.
'It was determined by those who governed, that we
should march through the woods upon a distant expe-
dition against the French. The conduct of this enter-
prize was given to a brave but rash commander, totally'
unacquainted with the people he had to oppose, and un-
skilled in the nature of a savage war ; we therefore
began our march through the same trickless wilds
I have described ; and proceeded for several days with-
out any other difficulties, than the nature of the country
itself produced, and without seeing the face of an enemy.
It was in vain that officers of the greatest experience,
and particularly my worthy colonel, suggested to our
commander the necessity of using every precaution
against so dangerous and insidious foe.
* War is not managed, amid the forests of America,
Ml the same manner as it is conducted upon the plains
of Europe. The temper of the public there conspires
with the nature of the country to render it a continual
*»ene of stratagems and surprise. Unincumbered with
WARFARE, ETC. 13fl
ents, or baggage, or numerous 'rains of artilkry, th«
nostile warriors set out in small and chosen parties, with
nothing but their arms, and are continually upon the
watch to deceive their enemies. Long experience has
taught them a degree of sagacity in traversing the woods
which to us is inconceivable. Neither the widest rivers,
nor the most extensive forests, can retard them for an
instant. A march of a thousand miles is scarcely to
them a greater difficulty than the passage of an European
army between two neighbouring towns. The woods
themselves afford them a continual supply of provisions
in the various animals which they kill by the chase.
When they are near their enemies, they frequently lurk
all day in thickets, for fear of a discovery, and pursue
their march by night. Hundreds of them sometimes
pursue their course in the same line, treading only in
each other's steps, and the last of the party carefully
covers over the impressions which his fellows have
made. . When they are thus upon the point of accom
plishing their purpose, the very necessities of nature arc
unhic-Jed: they cease to fire upon the beasts of the
forest, lest it should alarm the foe ; they feed upon the
roots or the bark of trees, or pass successive days in a
perfect abstinence from food. All this, our colonel re-
presented to the general, and conjured him, with the
strongest entreaties, not to hazard the safety of our army
by an incautious progress. He advised him to send out
numerous detachments to beat the bushes and examine
the woods : and offered himself to secure the march of
the army. But presumption is always blind : our gene.
ral was unacquainted with any other than European
430 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
warfare, and could not conceive that naked savage*
would dare attack an army of two thousand disciplined
troops.
; One morning, the way before us appeared more
'intricate and obscure than common ; the forests did
not, as usual, consist of lofty trees, which afford a
tolerably clear prospect between their trunks, but were
composed of creeping bushes and impervious thickets.
The army marched as usual, with the vain ostentation
of military discipline, but totally unprepared for the
dreadful scene which followed. At length we entered
a gloomy valley, surrounded on every side by the
thickest shade, and rendered swampy by the overflow-
ings of a little rivulet. In this situation it was impossi
ble to continue our march without disordering our ranks ,
and part of the army extended itself beyond the rest
while another part of the line involuntarily fell behind.
* In the moment while the officers were employed in
rectifying the disorder of their men, a sudden noise of
musketry was heard in front, which stretched about
twenty of our men upon the field. The soldiers in-
stinctively fired towards the part whence they were
attacked, and instantly fell back in disorder. But it
was equally vain to retreat or go forward, for it now
appeared that we were completely hemmed in. On
every side resounded the fatal peals of scattering fire
that thinned our ranks and extended our bravest com
rades on the earth. Figure to yourself a shoal of
fishes, inclosed within the net, that circle in vain the
fatal labyrinth in which they are involved, or rathei
conceive what I have myself been witness to, a herd of
WARFARE. 43T
deer surrounded on every side by a band of active and
unpitying hunters, who press and gall them on every
side, and exterminate them at leisure in their flight :
just such was the situation of our unfortunate country.
men. After a few unavailing discharges, which nevei
annoyed a secret enemy that scattered death unseen,
the ranks were broken, and all subordination lost. The
ground was covered with gasping wretches, and stained
with blood ; the woods resounded with cries and groans,
and fruitless attempts of our gallant officers to rally
their men, and check the progress of the enemy. By
intervals was heard, more shrill, more dreadful than all
the rest, the dismal yell of the victorious savages, who
now, emboldened by their success, began to leave the
covert, and hew down those who fled with unrelenting
cruelty. As to myself, the description which our colonel
had given me of their method of attack, and the pre-
cautions to be used against it, rendered me perhaps
less disturbed than I should otherwise have been. I re-
marked that those who stood and those who fled were
exposed to equal danger ; those who kept their rank,
and endeavoured to repel the enemy, exposed their
persons to their fire, an-d were successively shot down,
as happened to most of our unfortunate officers : while
those who fled frequently rushed headlong upon the
very death they sought to avoid.
' Pierced to the heart at the sight of such a carnage
of my gallant comrades, I grew indifferent to life, and
abandoned myself to despair; but it was a despair that
neither impaired my exertions, nor robbed me of the
faculties of my mind. " imitate me," I cried, " mv
37*
438 SA.NDF0R1 AND MERTON.
gallant countrymen, and we shall yet be safe;." I the*
direct^ ran to the nearest tree, and sheltered myself
behind its stem ; convinced that this precaution alone
could secure me from the incessant vollies which darted
on every side. A small number of highlanders followed
my example, and, thus secured, we began to fire with
more success at the enemy, who now exposed them-
selves with less reserve. This check seemed to aston»
ish and confound them, and, had not the panic been so
general, it is possible that this successful effort might
have changed the fortune of the fight, for, in another
quarter, the provincial troops that accompanied us
behaved with the greatest bravery, and, though deserted
by the European forces, effected their own retreat.
' But it was now too late to, hope for victory or even
safety ; the ranks were broken on every side, the greater
part of our officers slain or wounded, and our unfortu
nate general himself had expiated with his life his fatal
rashness. I cast my eyes around, and saw nothing but
images of death, and horror, and frantic rage. Yet
even then the safety of my noble colonel was dearer to
me than my own. I sought him for some time in vain,
amid the various scenes of carnage which surrounded
me. At length I discovered him at a distance, almost
deserted by his men, yet still attempting to renew the
fight, and heedless of the wounds which covered him.
Transported with grief and passion, I immediately
darted forward to offer him my feeble support ; but in
'■\e very instant of my arrival, he received a strangling
ball in his l>osom, and, tottering to a tree, supported his
leaning limbs against the trunk. Just in that moment
WARFARE. 430
three of our savage enemies observed his situation, ant?
marked him for their prey : they raised their hideous
yell, and darted upon him with the speed and fierceness
of wolves. Fury then took possession of my soul : had
\ possessed a thousand lives, I should have held them
sheap in the balance. I fired with so unerring an aim
that I stretched the foremost on the earth ; the second
received the point of my bayonet in his breast, and fell
in the pangs of death ; the third, daunted with the fate
of his companions, turned his steps another way.
• Just then a horse, that had lost his rider, was gal-
loping along the wood : I bounded across the path, and,
seizing him by the bridle, instantly led him to my
leader, and conjured him to preserve his glorious life.
He thanked me in the most affectionate manner for my
friendship, but bade me preserve my own life. "As to
myself," said he, " I do not wish to survive my coun-
try's dishonour ; and even had I such a wish, the
wounds I have received would render all escape impos-
sible." — " If that is your resolution," said I, " we will
die together; for I swear by the eternal majesty of my
Creator, that I will not leave you." When he saw me
thus resolved, he consented to use my assistance, and
with infinite difficulty I seated him upon the horse,
which holding by the reins, as I was then light and
act ve, I guided along the wood with no inconsiderable
speed.
' Fortunately for me, we were not observed by any
of- our savage enemies, so that, flying through the
thickest part of the forest, we left the danger behind
tnd were soon removed beyond the sight or hearing a'
440 SANDFORD AND MURTOr.
the battle. " Courage," said I, " my noble leader! yoo
an now almost in safety ; and I trust you will yet pre»
serve a life so necessary to your friends and country.'
He answered me with the kindest expressions, but witfe
a feeble voice : " Campbell, I have consented to fly,
more for the sake of preserving your life, than from any
hopes of my own ; but since we are at a distance from
yonder dreadful scene, permit me to alight ; I have
consumed my small remaining forces in the way, and
now I am faint from loss of blood." He sunk down at
this, and would have fallen, but I received him in my
arms ; I bore him to the next thicket, and, strewing
grass and leaves upon the ground, endeavoured to pre-
pare him a bed. He thanked me again with gratitude
and tenderness, and grasped my hand as he lay in tha
very agonies of death : for such it was, although I be-
lieved he had only fainted, and long tried every ineffec.
tual method to restore departed life. Thus was I
deprived of the noblest officer and kindest friend that
ever deserved the attachment of a soldier. Twenty
years have now rolled over me since that inauspicious
day, yet it lives for ever in my remembrance, and never
shall be blotted from my sovit. (The Highlander then
turned away to hide a tear, which did not misbecome
his manly countenance : the company seemed all to
share his griefs, but miss Simmons above the -est,
However, as the natural gentleness of her temper wns
sufficiently known, no one suspected that she had any
particular interest in the relation.)
* I sat till night (continued the stranger) supporting
the breathless bodv of my colonel, and vainly hoping he
CONCEALMENT. 44a
ought return to Lie. At length I perceived that h»a
noble soul was fled for ever; my own wounds grew
stiff and painful, and exhausted nature required a supply
of food. I therefore arose, and finding a spring that
trickled down a hill at no great distance, I refreshed my-
self by a copious draught, and washed the clotted blood
away from the hurts 1 had received. I then crushed
some leaves, which the inhabitants of that country ima-
gine salutary, and bound them on with bandages which
I tore from my linen. I also found a few wild fruits,
which past experience had taught me were innocent,
and with them I allayed pains of hunger. I then re-
turned to the thicket, and, creeping into the thickest part,
endeavoured to compose myself to rest.
'Strange, gentlemen, as it may appear, neither the
forlorn nature of my situation, nor the dangers with
which I was beset, were sufficient to keep me awake.-
my wearied and exhausted body seemed to triumph ovei
all the agitations of my mind ; and I sunk into a sleep
as deep and profound as that of death itself. I awoke
next morning with the first rays of the sun ; b*jt, more
composed, I better understood the difficulties in which 1
was involved, and the uncertainty of my escape. I was
in the midst of an immense desert, totally destitute of
human assistance or support. Should I meet with any
of my fellow-creatures, I could expect nothing but im-
placable cruelty ; and even if I escaped their vigilance,
what method of finding subsistence, or of measuring
back, without a guide, the long and tedious march I had
trodden ? Hope, however, and the vigour of my consti
tution still supported me. I reflected that it is the com
442 SANDPORD AND MERTOIf.
mon lot of man to struggle with misfortunes; that it 11
cowardice to yield to evils, when present, the represen-
tation of which had not deterred me from voluntarily
embracing the profession of a soldier: and that the pro
vidence of Heaven was as capable of protecting me ir.
the forests of America, as upon my native mountains. 1
therefore determined to struggle to the last with the dif-
ficulties which surrounded me, and to meet my fortune
like a man. Yet, as I still by intervals heard the dis-
mal cries of the enemy, and saw their fires at a distance,
I lay close till night in the obscurity of my thicket.
When all was dark and still I ventured abroad, and laid
in my scanty provision of fruits and herbs, and drank
again at the spring. The pain of my wounds now
began to abate a little, though I suffered extremely from
the cold, as I did not dare to kindle a fire, from the fear
of discovering myself by its light.
" Three nights aud days did I lead this solitary life,
in continual dread of the savage parties which scoured
nil the woods in pursuit of stragglers, and often passed
«o near my place of retreat, that I gave myself over for
<ost. At length, on the fourth evening, fancying my-
self a little restored, and that the activity of the enemy
might be abated, I ventured out, and pursued my march.
I scarcely need describe the various difficulties and dan-
gers to which I was exposed in such a journey ; how-
ever, I still had with me my musket, and as my ammu-
nition was not quite exhausted, T depended upon th(
woods themselves to supply me with food. I travelled
the greater part of the night, involving myself stil!
deeper m these inextricable forests, for I was afraid U»
CONCEALMENT. 443
pursue the direction of our former march, as I imagined
the savages were dispersed along the country in pursuit
of the fugitives. I therefore took a direction as nearly
as I could judge parallel to the English settlements, and
inclining to the south. In this manner I forced my
way along the woods all night, and with the morning
had reason to think that I had advanced a considerable
distance.
" My wounds began now to pain me afresh with this
exertion, and compelled me to allow myself some repose.
I chose out the thickest covert I could find, and shroud-
ing myself as well as I was able, was soon overpowered
by sleep. I did not awake till the sun had gained the
meridian, and, creeping from my retreat, beheld, with
some degree of terror, an enormous rattle-snake that
was coiled up full in my way, and seemed determined
to oppose my passage. This animal is frequent in the
southern colonies, and is the most poisonous of all the
reptiles that haunt the woods. He is in length from
two to six feet, beautifully variegated with different
colours, but the most remarkable circumstances attend
ing him is a natural noise that he produces with ever)
motion of his tail, and which, too, occasions his name,
I soon destroyed my hissing foe, and, taking courage
for the first time to kindle a fire, f roasted him upon the
embers, and made the most delicious meal I ever re-
member upon his flesh.'
1 What !' exclaimed Tommy, 4 is it possible to eat
snakes? 1 thought they had been all over poison.'—
* Master,' replied the Highlander, 'the want of food will
reconcile us to many meats, which we should scarcely
444 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
think eatable. Nothing has surprised me more than to
see the poor, in various countries, complaining of the
scarcity of food, yet throwing away every year thou-
sands of the carcases of horses, which are full as
wholesome and nourishing as beef, and are in many
countries preferred to it. But, in general, every animal
may be eaten, and affords a salutary food. As to snakes,
the poison of them is contained in the hollow of their
teeth. When they bite, they instil their venom into the
wound, which mixes with the blood, and, without a
timely remedy, destroys the sufferer: but if you cut oft
the head, the rest of the body is not only wholesome but
palatable, and I have known it eaten as a delicacy by
many inhabitants of the colonies.
4 Thus refreshed, therefore, I pursued my march
through the same thick, gloomy country, without meet-
ing the least appearance of a human creature: and at
night I cut, with a hatchet that I haa about me, some
boughs, with which I erected a temporary shelter. The
next day, as I was pursuing my march, I saw a deer
bound by me, upon whose shoulders was fixed a fierce
and destructive animal resembling a tiger. This crea-
ture, which is about the size of a moderate dog, ascends
the trees, and hides himself among the branches till a
deer, or any other animal that he can master, passes
within its reach. He then darts himself with a sudden
spring full upon the neck or shoulder of the unfortunate
animal, which he continues tearing with so much vio-
lence, that he soon despatches him. This was actually
the case with the poor deer that passed me ; for he had
•ot run a hundred yards before he fell down in tho ago-
REFRESHMENT. 441
aies of death, and his destroyer began to regale himself
upon the prey. I instantly saw that this was a lucky
opportunity of supplying myself with food for several
days. I therefore ran towards the animal and by a vio-
lent shout made him abandon his victim, and retire
growling into the woods. I then kindled a fire with
leaves and sticks, and cutting off a large slice of venison,
( plentifully refreshed myself for my journey. I then
packed up as much of the most fleshy parts of the body
as I could conveniently carry, and abandoned the rest
to wild beasts.
* In this manner did I march for several days without
wanting food, or seeing any probable end of my fatigues.
A.t length I found a lofty mountain before me, which I
determined to ascend, imagining that such an elevation
might enable me to make some use r ul discoveries in re-
spect to the nature of the country I had to traverse, and
perhaps present me with some appearances of cultiva-
tion or inhabitants. I therefore ascended with infinite
fatigue a rough and stony ascent of several miles, in
which I was frequently obliged to clamber up pointed
rocks, and work my way along the edge of dangerous
precipices. I however arrived without an accident at
the top, which was entirely bare of trees : and, looking
round me, I beheld a wild and desert country, extended
to a prodigious distance. Far as my eye could reach,
f discovered nothing but forests on every side but one :
there the country seemed to be more open, though
equally uncultivated, and I saw meadows and savannahs
opening one beyond another, bounded at length by a
spacious river, whose end and beginning were equallv
38
146 SANDFORL AND MERTON.
concealed from my eye. I was now so weary of thus
solitary kind of life, that I began to consider the inhabi-
tants themselves with less apprehension : besides, I
thought myself out of danger of meeting with the hostile
tribes: and, all these people, unless irritated by injuries,
or stimulated by revenge, are perhaps less strangers to
the rites of hospitality than any civilized nation. I there-
fore reflected, that by directing my course to the river,
and following the direction of its waters, I should have
the greatest probability of meeting with some of my fel-
low-creatures, as the natives build their villages near
lakes and "streams, and choose their banks as a resi-
dence, when they are employed in hunting. I therefore
descended the mountain, and entered the level district
which I saw before me; and then marched along an
open champaign country for several hours, covered over
with a species of rank grass ; and beheld numerous
herds of buffaloes grazing all around.
* It was here that an accident befel me, which I will
relate for its singularity, both in respect to the dangers
I incurred, and my method of escape. As I was thus
journeying on, I discovered a prodigious light, that
seemed to efface the sun itself, and streak the skies with
an angry kind of illumination. I looked round me
to discover the cause of this strange appearance, and
beheld, with equal horror and astonishment, that the
whole country behind was in flames. In order to
explain this event, I must observe, that all the plains in
America produce a rank, luxuriant vegetation, the juices
of which are exhausted by the heat of the summer's
tun: it is then as inflammable as straw or fodder; and,
WILDFIRE. 44*
when a casual spark of fire communicates wun it, the
flame frequently drives before the wind for miles together,
and consumes every thing it meets. This was actually
the case at present : far as my eye could reach, the
country was all in flames ; a powerful wind added fresh
fury to the fire, and drove it on with a degree of swift-
ness which precluded all possibility of flight. I must
confess, that I was struck with horror at the sudden ap-
proach of a death, so new, so dreadful, so unexpected !
I saw it was in vain to fly ; the flaming line extended
for several miles on every side, and advanced with such
vel i \ , 1.; ! «-t i..-:r!( ed my fate as inevitable. I
looked round me with a kind of mute despair, and began
to envy the fate of my comrades who had fallen by
honourable wounds in battle. Already did the confla-
gration scorch me in its approach, accompanied by
clouds of smoke that almost suffocated me with their
baneful vapour. In this extremity, Providence presented
to my mind an instantaneous thought, which perhaps
was the only possible method of escape. I considered
that nothing could stop the conflagration but an actual
want of matter to continue it ; and therefore, by setting
fire to the vegetables before me, I might follow my own
path in safety. (I hope, gentlemen, that during the
course of a long life, you will never have occasion to
experience the pleasure which the first glance of this
expedient afforded to my mind.) I saw myself snatched,
beyond expectation, from a strange and painful death,
and instantly pulled out, with a trembling hand, the flint
and steel upon which my preservation was to depend. I
struck a light, and presently kindled the driest grasa
148 SANDFORD AND JVIERTON.
before me : the conflagration spread along the country
the wind drove it on with inconceivable fury, and I sap
the path of my deliverance open before my eyes. In a
few seconds, a considerable vacancy was burnt before
me, which I traversed with the speed of a man that flies
from instant death. My feet were scorched with the
glowing soil, and several times had I been nearly suffo-
cated with the drift of the pursuing smoke ; but every
step I made convinced me of the certainty of my escape;
and, in a little time, I stopped to consider at leisure the
conflagration I had avoided ; which, after proceeding to
the point" whence I set out, was extinguished as I had
foreseen, and delivered me from all apprehension.' —
' I declare,' said Tommy, ' this is the most extraor-
dinary thing I ever heard ; and yet I can easily con
ceive it, for I once saw some men set fire to the heath
and furzes upon the common, and they burnt so furiously
that I was quite afraid to come near the flame.'
'I pursued my way,' continued the Highlander, 'over
the smoking soil, which I had rendered bare to a con-
siderable extent, and lodged at night, as usual, under
some boughs which I stuck up to defend me. In the
morning I set out again ; and soon arrived at a spacious
lake, upon whose banks I could plainly discern the
signs of an American encampment. I hesitated some
time, whether I should again conceal myself in the
woods, or deliver myself up to their mercy. But I con-
sidered that it was impossible long to continue this wan
dering life ; and that, in the end, I must have recourse
to some of these savage tribes for assistance. What
therefore, must be done at last, it was fruitless to delay
THE ENCAMT3IENT. 449
I had every reason to imagine, that the people before
me must either be favourable to Great Britain, or at
least indifferent to the war : and in either case, from
all the experience I possessed of the manners of the
natives, I did not think I had much to fear. I therefore
determined to hazard every thing upon the probability
of a favourable reception, and, collecting all my reso-
lution, I marched boldiy forward, and soon arrived at
the encampment.
1 As soon as I entered the village, the women and
children gathered round me with the curiosity natural
to mankind at the sight of an unaccustomed object. I
formed a favourable conjecture from this apparent igno-
rance of Europeans, and walking on with a composed
step and steady countenance* I at length entered into
one of the largest cabins I could find. When 1 was
within, I saw a venerable old man, whom I took
to be a chief fi >m his appearance, sitting at his ease
upon the ground, and smoking. I saluted him with all
me courtesy 1 was able, and placed myself upon the
ground, at some little distance, waiting with inward
anxiety, but external composure, for him to begin the
conversation. After he had eyed me for some time
with fixed attention, but without either sternness or
anger, he took the pipe from his mouth and presented
it to me. I received it with infinite satisfaction: for, as
I have before remarked, this is always with the Ameri-
can tribes the firmest pledge of peace and a friendly
reception
* When we had thus been seated for some time io
mutual contemplation of each other, he asked me, in a
88*
450 8ANDFORD AND MERTON.
dialect which I understood tolerably well, to eat. t did
not think it prudent to refuse any offered civility, and
therefore accepted the offer; and, in a little time, a
young woman, who was in the back part of the hut, set
before me some broiled fish and parched maize. Aftei
I had eaten, my friendly host inquired into my country
and the reasons of my visit. I was just enough ac-
quainted with the language he spoke, to be able to
understand him, and to give an intelligible, though im-
perfect answer. I therefore explained to him, as well
as I was able, that I had crossed the great water, with
the warriors of the king of Britain : that we had been
compelled to take up the hatchet against the French and
their allies, and that we had actually set out upon an
expedition against their colonies ; but that we had been
surprised by a lurking party in the woods : that, in the
confusion of the fight, I had been separated from the
rest, and had wandered several days through the
woods in search of my comrades : and that now, see-
ing the tents of my brethren, the red men, I had come
to visit them, and smoke the pipe of peace in their com-
pany. AH this I with some difficulty explained to my
entertainer, who listened to me with great attention, and
then bade me welcome in the name of his nation, which
he told me was called the Saukies ; he added, « that
their young men were dispersed through the woods,
hunting the deer and buffalo, but they would soon
return loaded with provisions, and in the meantime 1
might share his cabin, and such provisions as he could
:ommand.' I thanked him for his offer, and remained
several days in his hut, always entertained with the
tame hospitality, until the return of the young men iron'
HUNTING, ETC. 46
Bunting. They came at last, in several boats, along th<
lake, bringing with them a considerable quantity of
wild beasts, which they had killed. I was received by
all the tribe with the same hospitality I had experienced
from the old chief; and, as it was necessary to gain
their friendship as much as possible, I joined them in
all their hunting and fislung parties, and soon acquired
considerable degree of skill in both.
1 Hunting itself has something cruel in the practice ,
it is a species of war which we wage with brute animals
for their spoils ; but if ever it can be considered as ex-
cusable, it is in these savage nations, who have recourse
to it for their subsistence. They are active, bold, and
dexterous in all these exercises, to such a degree, that
none of the wild animals they attack have the *malles/
chance of escape. Their parties generally consist ot
almost all the youth of their nation, who go in a bodv
to particular districts where they know game is plentiful.
Their common method is, when they are arrived at a
spot which abounds in deer or buffaloes, to disperse
themselves through the woods ; and then, alarming the
beasts in the neighbourhood, they drive them with shouts
and dogs towards some common place, which was
always in the middle of all their parties. When they
have thus roused their prey, the various squadrons gra-
dually advance towards the centre, till they unite in a
circle, and inclose prodigious numbers of frightened ani-
mals They then attack them either with fire-arms or
arrows, and shoot them down successively. Bv these
means they are sure, in a single day, to destroy a pro.
digious number of different beasts. But it sometime*
happens, that while they are engaged in the chase of
452 gANDFORD AND MERTOW.
other animals, they become a prey themselves to then
enemies, who take this method of surprising them in thf
woods, and gratifying their resentment. This was ac«
tually the case with my friends the Saukies, and pro-
duced a surprising event ; the consequence of which
was my return to the English colonies in safety.
' The Saukies had been long at war with the Iroquese,
a powerful tribe of North Americans, in the interest Df
the French. The Iroquese had received intelligence of
the situation of the Saukies' encampment, and determined
to surprise them. For this purpose, a thousand war-
riors set out by a secret march through the woods, and
travelled with silence and celerity which are peculiar to
all these nations. When they had nearly approached
the hunting grounds of their enemies, they happened to
be discovered upon their march by four warriors of
another nation, who instantly suspected their design
and, running with greater diligence than it was possible
so large a body could make, arrived at the encampment
of the Saukies, and informed them of the near approach
of their enemies. A great council was instantly assem-
bled to deliberate upon the choice of proper measures for
their defence. As they were incumbered with their
families, it was impossible to retreat with safety ; and
it seemed equally difficult to resist so large a force with
inferior numbers.
1 While they were in this uncertainty, I considered the
nature of their situation, and had the good fortune to
find out a resource, which being communicated to my
friend and chief, and adopted by the nation, was tht
nneans of their safety. I observed that 'he passage to
the Saukie camp, for the Iroquese, lay along a narrow
THE 8AUKIES. 4&3
»iip of land which extended for near a mile between two
lakes. I therefore advised the Saukies to cast up a
strong barrier at the end of the passage, which I showed
them how to strengthen with ditches, palisades, and some
of the improvements of European fortification. Their
number of warriors amounted to about, four hundred
these I divided into equal parts, and, leaving one to de
fend the lines, I placed the other in ambuscade along the
neighbouring woods. Scarcely were these dispositions
finished, before the Iroquese appeared, and, imagining
they were rushing upon an unguarded foe, entered the
defile without hesitation. As soon as the whole body
was thus imprudently engaged, the other party of the
Saukies started from their hiding-places, and, running to
the ent^tnce of the strait, threw up in an instant another
fortification, and had the satisfaction to see the whole
force of their enemies thus circumvented nnd caught in
a trap. The Iroquese soon perceived the difficulty and
danger of escape. They, however, behaved with that
extraordinary composure which is the peculiar charac-
teristic of this people on every occasion. The lakes were
at that time frozen over, yet not so hard as to permit
them to effect a passage over the ice; and though a thaw
succeeded in a short time, it was equally impracticable to
pass by swimming, or on rafts. Three days, therefore,
the Iroquese remained quiet in this disagreeable situa
lion ; and, as if they had nothing to apprehend, diverted
themselves all this time witVi fishing. On the fourth
morning they judged the ice sufficiently dissolved to at-
tempt the ; r escape; and therefore, cutting down some
trees which grew upon the strait, they formed tnem into
rafls, and embarked their whole force. But this could
454 8ANDFORD AND MERTON
not be done without the knowledge of the Saukies, who
dispatched a considerable body of warriors to oppose
their landing. It is unnecessary to relate all the horrid
particulars of the engagement which ensued ; I will onl}
mention, that the Iroquese at length effected their land-
ing with a loss of half their number, and retreated pre-
cipitately to their own country, leaving behind them all
the furs and skins which they had taken in their hunt-
ing. The share I had had in this success gained me the
friendship of all the nation ; and, at my desire, they sent
some of their young men to guide me through the woods
to the English settlements, and took their leave of me
with every expression of esteem, and a considerable pre-
sent of valuable furs.
* These, gentlemen, are the most important ind in-
teresting of my adventures ; and, as I have already
trespassed too long upon your patience, I shall hasten to
conclude my story. After this, I was employed in vari-
ous parts of America and the West Indies, during the
rest of the war. T suffered hardships and difficulties in-
numerable, and acquired, as my father had foretold, a
little wisdom at the price of a considerable quantity of
blood. When the war was ended, I found myself
nearly in the same situation as I began, except the pre-
sent of my friendly Americans, which I turned into
money and remitted to England. I therefore now began
to feel my military enthusiasm abated, and, having per-
mission to leave the service, I embraced that opportunity
of returning to my country, fully determined to spend
the remainder of my life amid my family and frienas.
I found my father and mother still living, who received
me in the fondest manner. I then employed the little
MISFORTUNK. 45- r
ftmd I had acquired, to stock a farm, which I had hired
tn the neighbourhood, and where I imagined my caro
wtd industry would be sufficient to ensure us all a corn'
fbrtable subsistence. Some little time after, I married a
virtuous and industrious young woman, the mother of
ihe unfortunate children who are so much indebted to
your bounty. For some time I made a shift to succeed
tolerably well ; but at length the distress of my country
increasing, I found myself involved in the deepest
poverty. Several years of uncommon severity destroyed
my cattle, which is the chief support of the Highlanders,
and rotted away the scanty crops, which were to supply
us with food, upon the ground. I cannot accuse myself
of either voluntary unthriftiness, or neglect of my busi-
ness ; but there are some situations in which it seems
impossible for human exertion to stem the torrent of
misfortune. But wherefore should I give pain to such
kind and worthy benefactors, by a detail of all the mi-
series which I, and many of my poor countrymen, have
sndured ? I will therefore only mention, that, after
having suffered, I think, every distress which human na»
ture is equal to support ; aflei saving seen my tender pa-
rents, and last, my dear unfortunate wife, perish by the
hardships of our situation, I took the resolution of abandon*
ing, for ever, a country which seemed incapable of sup-
porting its inhabitants. I thought that the milder cli-
mate and more fertile soil of America, might, perhaps,
enable a wretched wanderer, who asked no more than
food for his starving children, to drag on, a little longer,
a miserable life. With this idea I sold the remainder of
my stock, and, after having paid my landlord, I foand
I had just enough to transport myself and family inte
456 SANDFORI) AND MBRTON.
eternal banishment. I reached a sea-port town, and
embarked with my children on board a ship that was
setting sail for Philadelphia. But the same ill-fortune
seemed still to accompany my steps, for a dreadful storm
arose, which, after having lost our vessel during several
days, wrecked us at length upon the coast. All the
crew, indeed, escaped, and with an infinite difficulty I
saved these dear but miserable infants, who now accom-
pany me : but when I reflect on my situation, in a dis
tant country, without resources, friends, or hopes, I am
almost inclined to think that we might all have been hap-
pier in the bosom of the ocean.'
Here the Highlander finished his story, and all the
company were effected by the recital of his distresses.
They all endeavoured to comfort him with the kindest
expressions and promises of assistance ; but miss Sim-
mons, after she had with some difficulty composed her-
self enough to speak, asked the man if his name was not
Andrew Campbell? The Highlander answered, with
some surpise, it was. « Then,' said she, * you will find
that you have a friend, whom, as yet, you are not ac-
quainted with, who has both the ability and the will to
serve you. That friend,' added she, seeing all the com
pany astonished, < is no other than my uncle. Thai
Colonel Simmons, whom you have described with so
much feeling and affection, was brother to my father,
and consequently uncle to myself. It is no wonder that
the memory of such a man should be venerated by his
relations. I have often heard my uncle speak of his
untimely death as the greatest misfortune which ever
happened to our family ; and I have often seen him read,
with tears in his eves, many of his brother's letters, in
THE SURPRISE 45**
wliich he speaks with the greatest affect on of his faith-
ful Highlander, Andrew Campbell,'
At these words the poor Highlander, unable to represt
he strong emotions of his mind, sprang forward in a
sudden transport of joy, and, without consideration of
circumstances, caught miss Simmons in his arms, ex«
claiming at the same time, « Praised be God for this
happj and unexpected meeting ! Blessed be my ship-
wreck itself, that has given me an opportunity of seeing
before I die, some of the blood of my dear and worthy
colonel!' — and, perceiving miss Simmons confused at
this abrupt and unexpected salutation, he added, in the
most respectful manner, { Pardon me, my honoured young
lady, for the improper liberty I have taken ; but I was
not master of myself, to find, at a time when I thought
myself the most forlorn and miserable of the human
race, that I was in company with the nearest relation of
the man, whom, after my own father, I have always
loved and reverenced most.' Miss Simmons answered
with the greatest affability, that she freely excused the
warmth of his affection, and that she would that very
day acquaint her uncle with this extraordinary event ,
who, she did not doubt, would come over with the great-
est expedition to see a person whom he knew so well bv
name, and who could inform him of so many particulars
•jf her uncle.
And now, the company being separated, Tommy, who
had listened with silent attention to the story of the High-
lander, took an opportunity of following Mr. Barlow
who was walking out ; and, when he perceived the>
were alone, he looked at him as if he had some weight*
39
458 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
matter to disclose, but was unable to give it utterance,
Mr. Barlow, therefore, turned towards him with tne
greatest kindness, and taking him tenderly by the hand,
inquired what he wished. * Indeed,' answered Tommy
almost crying, ' I am scarcely able to tell you. But 1
have been a very bad and ungrateful boy, and 1 am
afraid you no longer have the same affection for me.'
Mr B. If you are sensible of your faults, my little
friend, that is a very great step towards amending them.
Let me therefore know what it is, the recollection of
which distresses you so much ; and if it is in my powei
to assist in making you easy, there is nothing, I am
sure, which I shall be inclined to refuse you.
T. Oh, sir ! your speaking to me with so much good-
ness, nulls me a great deal more than if you were to be
very angry ; for, when people are angry and passionate,
one does not so much mind what they say ; but when
you speak with so much kindness, it seems to pierce
me to the very heart, because I know I have not de
served it.
Mr. B. But if you are sensible of having committed
any faults, you may resolve to behave so well for the
future, that you may deserve every body's friendship
and esteem : few people are so perfect as not to err
sometimes, and, if you are convinced of your errors,
you will be more captious how you give way to them a
lecond time.
T. Indeed, sir, I am very happy to hear you say
bo: — I will, then, tell you every thing which lies so
heavy upon my mind. You must know then, sir thai
although I have lived so long with you, and, during
all that time, you have taken so much pains to im«
faults, etc. 450
prove me in every thing, and teach me to act well to
every body, I had no sooner quitted your sight, than 1
became, I think, a worse boy thar ever I was before.
Mr. B. But why do you judge so severely of youi-
•elf, as to think you were become worse than ever 1
Perhaps you have been a little thoughtless and giddy ;
and these are the faults which I cannot with truth say
you were ever free from.
T. No, sir ; what I have been guilty of is infinitely
worse than ever. I have always been very giddy and
very thoughtless : but I never imagined I could have
been the most insolent and ungrateful boy in the
world.
Mr. B. You frighten me, my little friend. Is it
possible you can have committed actions that deserve
so harsh a name?
T. You shall judge yourself, sir, for now I have
begun, I am determined to tell you all. You know,
sir, that when I first came to you, 1 had a high opinion
of myself for being born a gentleman, and a very great
contempt for every body in an inferior station.
Mr. B, I must confess you have always had some
tendency to both these follies.
T. Yes, sir ; but you have so often laughed at me
upon the subject, and shown me the folly of people's
imagining themselves better "han others, without any
merit of their own, that I was grown a little wiser
Besides, I have so often observed that those I despisea
could do a variety of things which I was ignorant of
while those who are vain of being gentlemen can do
nothing useful or ingenious ; so that I had begun to be
ashamed of my folly. But since 1 came home, I hava
460 SANDFORO AFD OTERTON.
iept company with a great many fine young gentlemer
and ladies, who tlnught themselves superior to all the
rest of the world, and used to despise every one else ,
and they have made me forget every thing I learned
before.
Mr. B. Perhaps, then, I was mistaken when 1
taught you that the greatest merit any person could
have is to be good and useful : these fine young gen-
tlemen and ladies may be wiser, and have given you
better lessons. If that is the case, you will have great
reason to rejoice that you have changed so much for the
better.
T. No, sir, no ; I never thought them either good or
wise, for they know nothing but how to dress their
hair and buckle their shoes. But they persuaded me
that it was necessary to be polite, and talked to me so
often upon the subject, that I could not help believing
them.
Mr. B. I am glad to hear that ; it is necessary for
every body to be polite. They therefore, I suppose, in-
structed you to be more obliging and civil in your man-
ners than ever you were before, instead of doing you
any hurt this will be the greatest improvement you can
receive.
T. No, sir, quite the contrary. Instead of teaching
rne to be civil and obliging, they have made me ruder
tnd worse behaved than ever I was before.
Mr. B. If that is the case, I fear these fine young
gentlemen and ladies undertook to teach you more than
they understood themselves.
T. Indeed, sir, I am of the same opinion myself. But
f did not think so then, and therefore I did whatever
IMPROVEMENT. 46*
observed them do, and talked in the same manner as .
neard them talk. They used to be always laughing at
Harry Sand ford, and I grew so foolish, that I did not
choose to keep company with him any longer.
Mr. B. That was a pity, because I am convinced b?
really loves you. However, it is of no great cons©
quence, for he has employment enough at home : and
however ingenious you may be, I do not think that he
will learn how to manage his land, or raise food, from
your conversation. It will, therefore, be better for him
to converse with farmers, and leave you to the society
of gentlemen. Indeed, this, I know, has always been
his taste; and, had not your father pressed him very
much to accompany you home, he would have liked
much better to have avoided the visit. However, I will
inform him that you have gained other friends, and ad-
vise him, for the future, to avoid your company.
T. Oh, sir ! I did not think you could be so cruel.
I love Harry Sand ford better than any other boy in the
world ; and I shall never be happy till he forgives me
all my bad behaviour, and converses with me again as
he used to.
Mr. B. But then, perhaps, you may lose the ac-
quaintance of all those polit€ young gentlemen and
ladies.
T. I care very little about that, sir. But I fear I have
behaved so ill, that he never will be able to forgive me
and love me as he did formerly.
Tommy then went on, and repeated, with great ei
actness, the story of his insolence and ingratitude, which
lad so great an effect upon him, that ho burst into tears,
39*
462 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
and cried a considerable time. He then concluded witc
asking Mr. Barlow if he thought Harry would be evei
ible to forgive him ?
Mr. B. I cannot conceal from you, my little friend,
*,hat you have acted very il" indeed in this affair. How-
ever, if you are really ashamed of all your past conduct,
and determined to act better, I do not doubt that so
generous and good-natured a boy as Harry is, will for-
give you all.
T. Oh, sir ! I should be the happiest creature in the
world. Will you be so kind as to bring him here to-
day ? and you shall see how I will behave.
Mr. B. Softly, Tommy, softly. What is Harry to
come here for? Have you not insulted and abused him
without reason ; and at last proceeded so far as to strike
him, only because he was giving you the best advice,
and endeavouring to preserve you from danger? Can
you imagine that any human being will come to you in
return for such treatment, at least till you have con-
vinced him that you are ashamed of your passion and
injustice, and that he may expect better usage for the
future ?
T. What then must I do, sir 1
Mr. B. If you want any future connection with
Harry Sandford, .t is your business to go to him and
tell him so.
7*. What, sir! go to a farmer's, to expose myself
before all his family?
Mr. B. Just now you told me you were ready to do
every thing, and yet you cannot take the trouble of visit-
*ng youi friend at his own house. You then imagine
BEGGING PARDON. 469
that a person does not expose himself by acting wrong,
but by acknowledging and amending his faults?
T. But what would every body say if a young gen-
tlemen like me was to go and beg pardon of a farmer's
son?
Mr. B. They would probably say, hat you have
more sense and gratitude than they expected. How-
ever, you are to act as you please ; with the sentiments
you still seem to entertain, Harry will certainly be a
very unfit companion ; and you will do much better to
cultivate the new acquaintance you have made.
Mr. Barlow was then going away, but Tommy burst
again into tears, and begged him not to go ; upon which,
Mr. Barlow said, * I do not want to leave you, Tommy,
but our conversation is now at an end. You have asked
my advice, which I have given you freely. I have told
you how you ought to act, if you would preserve the
esteem of any good or sensible friend, or prevail upon
Harry to excuse your past behaviour. But, as you do
not approve of what I suggested, you must follow your
own opinion.'
* Pray, sir, pray, sir,' said Tommy, sobbing, 'do not
go. I have used Harry Sand ford in the most barbarous
manner ; my father is angry with me ; and, if you de-
sert me, I shall have no friend left in the world. 5
Mr. B. That will be your own fault; and therefore
you will not deserve to be pitied. Is it not in your own
power to preserve all your friends, by an honest con
fession of your faults? Your father will be pleased
Harry Sandford will heartilj forgive you, and I shui
retain the same good opinion jf your character which
«ave long had.
464 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
T, And is it really possible, sir, that yen shoulf
have a good opinion of me, after all I have told you
about myself?
Mr. B. I have always thought you a little vain and
careless, I confess j but, at the same time, I magined
you had both good sense and generosity in your cha-
racter; I depended upon the first to make you see your
faults, and upon the second to correct them.
T. Dear sir, I am very much obliged to you : but
you have always been extremely kind and friendly tn
me.
Mr. B. And, therefore, I told your father yesterday,
who is very much hurt at your quarrel with Harry, thai
though a sudden passion might have transported you too
far, yet, when you came to consider the matter coolly,
you would perceive your faults and acknowledge them :
were you not to behave in this manner, I owned I could
say nothing in your favour. And I was very much con-
firmed in this opinion, when I saw the courage you ex-
erted in the rescue of Harry's lamb, and the compassion
you felt for the poor Highlander. * A boy,' said I
c who has so many excellent dispositions^ can never per-
sist in bad behaviour. He may do wrong by accident
but he will be ashamed of his errors, and endeavour to
repair them by a frank and generous acknowledgment.
This has always been the conduct of really great and
devated minds; while mean and grovelling ones alona
imagine that it is necessary to persist in faults they have
once omitted.'
T. Oh, sir ! I will go directly, and entreat Harry ta
forgive me ; I am convinced that all you »ay Is right
AMENDMENT. 48|
But will you not go with me? Do pray, sir } be so
good.
Mr. B. Gently, gently, my young friend : you are
always for doing every thing in an instant. I am very
glad you have taken a resolution which will do you so
much credit, and give so much satisfaction to your own
mind : but, before you execute it, I think it will be
necessary to speak to your father and mother upon the
subject; and, in the mean time., I will go and pay a
visit to farmer Sandford, and bring you an account of
Harry.
T. Do, sir, be so good ; and tell Harry, if you
please, that there is nothing I desire so much as to see
him; and that nothing shall ever make me behave ill
again. I have heard too, sir, that there was a poor
Black came begging to us, who saved Harry from the
bull : if I could but find him out, I would be good to
him as long as I live.
Mr. Barlow commended Tommy very much for dis-
positions so full of gratitude and goodness : and, taking
leave of him, went to communicate the conversation he
had just had to Mr. Merton. That gentleman felt the
sincerest pleasure at the account, and entreated Mr.
Barlow to go directly to prepare Harry to receive his
ion. ' That little boy,' observed he, * has the noblest
mind that ever adorned a human being : nor shall I ever
be happy till I see my son acknowledging all his faults,
and entreating forgiveness ; for, with the virtues that !
have discovered in his soul, he appears to me a more
»Hgible friend and companion, than noblemen or princes.
Mr. Barlow therefore set out on foot, though Mr
Merton would have sent his carriage and servants 3
46^ SANDFORD AND MERTOJN.
attend him, and soon arrived at Mr. Sand ford's farm. 1
was a pleasant spot, situated upon the gentle decliv ty
of a hill, at the foot of which winded along a swift and
clear little stream. The house itself was small bul
warm and convenient; furnished with the greatest sim-
plicity, but managed with perfect neatness. As Mr,
Barlow approached, he saw the owner himself guiding a
plough through one of his own fields, and Harry, who
had now resumed the farmer, directed the horses. But
when he saw Mr. Barlow coming across the field, he
stopped his team, and, letting fall his whip, sprang for
ward to meet him with all the unaffected eagerness of
joy. As soon as Harry had saluted Mr. Barlow, and
inquired after his health, he asked with the greatesl
kindness after Tommy ; — * For I fancy, sir,' said he,
* by the way which I see you come, you have been at
Mr. Merton's house.' — * Indeed I have,' replied Mr.
Barlow, 'but I am very sorry to find that Tommy and
you are not on as good terms as you formerly were.'
H. Indeed, sir, I am very sorry for it myself. But
I do not know that I have given master Merton nny
reason to change his sentiments about me; and though
I do not think he has treated me as well as he ought to
do, I have the greatest desire to hear that he is well.
Mr. B. That you might have known yourself, had
you not left Mr. Merton's house so suddenly, without
taking leave of any one, even your friend Mr. Merton,
who has always treated you with so much kindness.
H. Indeed, sir, I should be very unhappy if you
ihink I have done wrong ; but be so good as to tell mf
how I could have acted otherwise. I am very sorry to
tppear to accuse master Merton neither do I bear anv
RICH AND POOR. 467
resentment against him for what he has done : but sinc€
you speak to me upon the subject, I shall be obliged to
tell the truth.
Mr. B. Well, Harry, let me hear it : you know I
shall be th3 last person to condemn you, if you do aol
deserve it.
H. I know your constant kindness to me, sir, and )
always confide in it ; however, I am not sensible that 1
am in fault. You know, sir, that it was with unwilling
ness I went to Mr. Merton's ; for, I thought there would
be fine gentlemen and ladies there, who would ridicule
my dress and manners : and, though master Merton has
been always very friendly in his behaviour towards me, I
could not help thinking that he might grow ashamed of
my company at his own house.
Mr. B. Do you wonder at that, Harry, considering
the difference there is in your rank and fortune.
H. No, sir, I cannot say I do ; for I generally ob-
serve, that those who are rich will scarcely treat the
poor with common civility. But, in this particular case,
I did not see any reason for it : I never desired master
Merton to admit me to his company or invite me to
his house, because I knew that J was born in a very
inferior station. You were so good as to take me t<c-
your house : and if I was then much in his company,
it was because he seemed to desire it himself, and J
always endeavoured to treat him with the greatest
respect.
Mr. B. That is indeed true, Harry ; in all youi
little plays and studies I have never observed anj
thing but the greatest mildness and good nature on yoy
pari.
*68 SANDFOED AND MERTON
H. I hope, sir, it has never been otherwise. But
though I had the greatest affection for master Merton, J
never desired to go home with him. What sort of a
figure could a poor boy like me make at a gentleman's
table, among little masters and misses that powder their
hair, and wear buckles ^.s big as our horses carry upon
their harness? If I attempted to speak, I was always
laughed at ; or if I did any thing, I was sure to hear
something about clowns and rustics ! And yet, I think,
though they were all gentlemen and ladies, you would
not much have approved of their conversation ; for it
was about nothing but plays, and dress, and trifles of
that nature. I never heard one of them mention a sin-
gle word about saying their prayers, or being dutiful to
their parents, or doing any good to the poor.
Mr. B. Well, Harry, but if you did not like their
conversation, you surely might have borne it with pati-
ence for a little while • — and then, I heard something
about your being quarrelsome.
H. Oh, sir ! I hope not. f was, to be sure, once a
little passionate ; but that I could not help, and I hope
you will forgive me. There was a modest, sensible
young lady, who was the only person that treated me
with any kindness; and a bold, forward, ill-natured boy
affronted her in the grossest manner, only because she
took notice of me. Could f help taking her part? Have
you not told me too, sir, that every person, though he
should avoid quarrels, has a right to defend himself when
he is attacked ?
Mr. B. Well, Harry, I do not much blame you, from
:he circumstances I have heard of that affair ; but whv
tlid you leave Mr. Merton's family so abruptly, withoo
RESOLUTION. 468
speaking to any body, or thanking Mr. Merton himself
tor the civilities he had shown you ? Was that right ?
H. Oh, dear sir, I have cried about it several times
rbr I think it must appear very rude and ungrateful tc
Mr. Merton. But as to master Tommy, I did not leave
him while I thought I could be of any use. He treater
me . must say, in a very unworthy manner ; he joiner
witn all the other fine little gentlemen in abusing me
only because I endeavoured to persuade them not to go
to a bull-baiting ; and then at last he struck me. 1 did
not strike him again, because I loved him so much, in
spite of all his unkindness ; nor did I leave him, till I
saw he was quite safe in the hands of his own servants.
And then, how could I go back to his house, after what
he had done to me ? I did not choose to complain Of
him to Mr. Merton ; and how could I behave to him as
I had done before, without being guilty of meanness and
falsehood ? And therefore I thought it better to go
home, and desire you to speak to Mr. Merton, and en-
treat him to forgive my rudeness.
Mr. B. Well, Harry, I can inform you that Mr.
Merton is perfectly satisfied on that account. But there
is one circumstance that you have not mentioned, my
little friend, and that is your saving Tommy's life from
the fury of the enraged bull.
H. As to that, sir, 1 hope I should have done the
same for any human creature. But I believe that nei<
her of us would have escaped, if it had not been for the
poor courageous Black, that came to our assistance.
Mr. B. I see, Harry, that you are a boy of a noble
and generous spirit, and I highly approve of every
40
470 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
thing you nave done ; but, are you determined to for
sake Tommy Merton for ever, because he has onw
behaved ill?
H. I, sir ! no, I am sure. But though I am poor, 1
do not desire the acquaintance of any body that despises
me. Let him keep company with his gentlemen and
ladies, I am satisfied with companions in my own sta-
tion. But surely, sir, it is not I that forsake him, but
he that has cast me off.
Mr. B. But if he is sorry for what he has done, and
only desires to acknowledge his faults, and obtain your
pardon ?
H. Oh, dear sir, I should forget every thing in an in-
stant. I knew master Tommy was always a little pas-
sionate and headstrong, but he is at the same time
generous and good-natured ; nor would he, I am sure,
have treated me so ill, if he had not been encouraged to
it by the other young gentlemen.
Mr. B. Well, Harry, I believe your frend is tho-
roughly sensible of his faults, and that you will have
little to fear for the future. He is impatient till he sees
you and asks your forgiveness.
H. Oh, sir, I should forgive him if he had beaten me
a hundred times. But, though I cannot leave the horses
now if you will be so kind to wait a little, I dare
Bay my father will let me go when he leaves off
ploughing.
Mr. B. No, Harry, there is no occasion for that,
Tommy has indeed used you ill, and ought to neknow.
ledge it, otherwise he will not deserve to be trusted
Rgnin. He will call upon you, and tell you all he foe.n
on the occasion. In the meantime I was desired, both
BENEVOLENCE. 4^1
by him and Mr. Merton, to inquire after the poor negro
hat served you so materially, and saved you from the
ull.
H. He is at our house, sir, for I invited him homo
with me ; and when my father heard how well he had
behaved, he made him up a little bed over the stable,
and gives him victuals everyday; and the poor man
seems very thankful and industrious, and says he would
gladly do any kind of work to earn his subsistence.
Mr. Barlow then took his leave of Harry, and, after
having spoken to his father, returned to Mr. Merton's.
During Mr. Barlow's absence, Mr. Simmons had
arrived there to fetch away his niece, but when he had
heard the story of the Highlander, he perfectly recol-
lected his name and character, and was touched with the
sincerest compassion for his sufferings. On conversing
with the poor man, he found that he was extremely well
acquainted with agriculture, as well as truly industrious,
and therefore instantly proposed to settle him in a small
farm of his own, which happened to be vacant. The
poor man received this unexpected change in his fortune
with tears of joy, and every mark of unaffected grati-
tude ; and Mr. Merton, who never wanted generosity,
insisted upon a share in his establishment. He wa9
proposing to supply him with the necessary implements
of agriculture, and a couple of horses, to begin the cul-
ture of his land, just at the moment when Mr. Barlow
entered ; who, when he had heard with the sincerest
pleasure the improvement of the poor man's circum-
stances, begged permission to share in so benevolent ac
action. ' I have an excellent miich-cow,' said he
which T can very well spare, whose milk will speedilv
472 SANDFORD AND MEKTON.
recruit the strength of these poor children: and i h«r«
half a dozen ewes and a ram, which I hope, under Mr.
Campbell's management, will soon increase to a nume
rous flock.' The poor Highlander seemed almost frantic
with such a profusion of unexpected blessings, and said
'■ that he wished nothing more than to pass the remainder
of his days in such a generous nation, and to be enabled
to show, at least, the sentiments which such undeserved
generosity had excited.'
At night Mr. Merton, who was desirous, by every
method, to support the good impressions which had now
taken possession of Tommy's mind, proposed that Miss
Simmons should favour them with the conclusion of tho
story, which she had begun the night before. The
young lady instantly complied, and then read them
The Conclusion of the Story of Sophron and TLgranes.
The venerable Chares continued his narration thus :
1 1 passed several months among the Arabians, delighted
with the simplicity of their life and the innocence of
their manners ; and would to heaven,' added he with a
sigh, y that I had accepted their friendly invitations, and
never quitted the silence of their hospitable deserts !
How many scenes should I have avoided which fill these
aged eyes with tears, and pierce my soul with horror as
often as I recollect them ! I should not have been wit-
ness to such a waste of human blood, nor traced the
gradual ruin of my country. T should not have seen
our towns involved in flames, nor our helpless children
the captives of fell barbarians. But it is in vain foi
numan beings to repine at the just decrees of Provi-
THE STORY, ETC. 473
fience, which have consigned every people to misery
and servitude that abandon virtue, and attach themselves
to the pu-rsuit of pleasure.
* I left Arabia, with a heart penetrated with gratitude
and admiration for its virtuous and benevolent inhabi-
tants. They dismissed me with every mark of kindness
and hospitality, guided me over their dreary deserts,
and at parting presented me with one of those beautiful
horses which are the admiration of all the surrounding
nations. (I will not trouble you with an account of the
different countries which I wandered over in search of
wisdom and experience.) At length I returned to my
native city, determined to pass the rest of my life in ob-
scurity and retirement; for the result of all my observa-
tions was, that he is happiest who passes his time in
innocent employments and the observation of nature. 1
had seen the princes and nobles of the earth repining in
the midst of their splendid enjoyments, disgusted with
the empty pageantry of their situation, and wishing, in
vain, for the humble tranquillity of private life. I had
visited many of the principal cities in several countries
vvhere I had travelled ; but I had uniformly observed,
that the miseries and crimes of mankind increased with
their numbers. I therefore determined to avoid tho
general contagion, by fixing my abode in some seques
tered spot, at a distance from the passions and pursuits
pf my fellow-creatures.
* Having therefore collected the remainder of my
affects, and with them purchased a little farm and vine-
vard in a beautiful and solitary spot near the sea, I soon
afterwards married a virtuous young woman, and in he»
40*
#f SAN Or 3RD AND MERFON.
■ociety enjoyed, for several years, as great a degree of
tranquillity as generally falls to the lot of man. I did
not disdain to exercise, with my own hands, the differen!
employments of agriculture : for I thought man was dis-
honoured by that indolence which renders him a bur-
then to his fellow-creatures, not by that industry which
is necessary to the support of his species. I therefore
sometimes guided the plough with my own hands, some-
times laboured in a little garden, which supplied us with
excellent fruits and herbs. I likewise tended the cattle,
whose patient labour enabled us to subdue the soil, and
considered myself as only repaying part of the obliga-
tions I had received. My wife, too, exercised herself
in domestic cares ; she milked the sheep and goats, and
chiefly prepared the food of the family.
Amidst my other employments, I did not entirely for-
get the study of philosophy, which had charmed me so
much in my early youth. I frequently observed, with
admiration, the wisdom and contrivance which were dis-
played in all the productions of nature, and the perfec»
tion of all her works. I used to walk amid the coolness
and stillness of the evening, feeding my mind with
pleasing meditations upon the power and wisdom which
have originally produced, and still support this frame of
things. I turned my eyes upon the earth, and saw it
covered with innumerable animals, that sported upon its
surface ; and found, each according to his nature, sub-
sistence adapted to his wants. I saw the air and wate:
themselves teeming with life, and peopled with innu
merable swarms of insects. I saw that, throughout the
tybole extent of c 'eation, as far as I was capable cf oh
lerving it nothing was waste or desolate ; every thing
NATURE. 475
«va« replete with life, and adapted to support it. Thesp
reflections continually excited in my mind new gratitud*
and veneration for that mysterious Being, whose good
n^ss presides over such an infinite variety of beings. 1
endeavoured to elevate my thoughts to contemplate his
nature and qualities ; I however found my faculties too
bounded to comprehend the infinite perfections of his
nature. I therefore contented myself with imperfectly
tracing him in his works, and adoring him as the com
mon friend and parent of alt his creatures.
1 Nor did I confine myself to these speculations, how-
ever sublime and consolatory to the human heart.
Destined as we are to inhabit this globe of earth, it i$*
our interest to be acquainted with its nature, and the
properties of its productions. For this reason I parti-
cularly examined all the vegetables which are capable
of becoming the food of man, or of the various animals
which contribute to his support. I studied their quali
ties, the soil in which they delighted, and the improve
ments which might be made in every species. I some-
times wandered among the neighbouring mountains, and
wherever the fall of rocks, or the repeated violence of
torrents, had borne away the soil, I considered, with
silent admiration, the various substances which we call
by the common name of earth. These I used to collect
and mingle with the mould of my own garden, by
which means I frequently made useful discoveries in
fertilizing the soil, and increasing the quantity of food.
* I also considered the qualities of the air which sur
rounds and sustains all living animals ; I particularly
remarked the noxious or salutary effects it is able to
produce upon their constitutions: and, bv these means,
476 SANDFORB AND MERTON.
was frequently enabled to give useful counsels to all th*
neighbourhood. A large tract of ground had been for-
merly deluged by the sea ; and the waters, finding no
convenient vent, spread themselves all around, and con
verted a large extent of soil into a filthy marsh. Every
year, when the heat of summer prevailed, the atmo-
sphere was filled with putrid exhalations, which produced
fevers and pestilential disorders among the inhabitants.
Touched with compassion for the evils which they
endured, I persuaded them to undertake the task of drain
ing the soil, and letting off the superfluous waters. This
I instructed them to do with such success, that, in a
short time, an unwholesome desert became covered with
the most luxuriant harvests, and was deprived of all its
noxious influence. By thus rendering my services use-
ful to my fellow-creatures, I received the purest reward
which can attend the increase of knowledge ; the con-
sciousness of performing my duty, and humbly imi-
tating that Being, whose goodness is as general and
unbounded as his power.
' Amidst these tranquil and innocent employments,
my life flowed gently away like a clear and even
stream ; I was a stranger to avarice, to ambition, and
to all the cares which agitate the bulk of mortals.
Alternate labour and study preserved the vigour both of
body and mind: our wants were few, and easily grati
fied ; we chiefly subsisted upon the liberal returns of the
earth, and seldom polluted our table with the bodies of
slaughtered animals. One only chHd, the unfortunate
girl who owes her preservation to the courage of this
young man, was granted to our prayers; but in her we
found enough to exercise all the affections of our mmds :
WOMEN. 477
we hung with ecstacy upon her innocent smiles, and
remarked her opening graces with all the Dartiaiity
of parental fondness. As she grew up, her mothei
instructed her in all the arts and employments of her
?ex ; while I, who already saw the tempest gathering,
which has since burst with such fatal fury upon my
country, thought it necessary to arm her mind with all
the firmness which education can bestow. For this
reason, I endeavoured to give both her mind and body
a degree of vigour, which is seldom found in the female
sex.
As soon as Selene (for that was her name) was suffi-
ciently advanced in strength to be capable of the lighter
labours of husbandry and gardening, I employed her as
my constant companion ; and she soon acquired a dex-
terity in all the rustic employments ; which I considered
with equal pleasure and admiration. If women are in
general feeble both in body and mind, it arises less from
nature than from education : we encourage a vicious
indolence and inactivity, which we falsely call delicacy ,
instead of hardening their minds by the severest princi-
ples of reason and philosophy, we breed them to useless
arfs, which terminate in vanity and sensuality. In
most of the countries which I had visited, they are
taught nothing of a higher nature than a few modula-
tions of the voice, or useless postures of the body;
their time is consumed in sloth or trifles, and trifles
become the only pursuit capable of interesting them.
We seem to forget, that it is upon the qualities of the
female sex, that our own domestic comforts, and the
education of our children, must depend. And what art
ihe comforts, or the education which a race of beings,
17 R SANDFORD AND MERTON.
corrupted from their infancy, and unacquainted with at
the duties of life, are fitted to bestow? To touch a
musical instrument with useless skill, to exhibit theii
natural or affected graces to the eyes of indolent and
debauched young men, to dissipate their husbands'
patrimony in riotous and unnecessary expences : — thest
are the only arts cultivated by women in most of the
polished nations I had seen. And the consequences arc
uniformly such as may be expected to proceed fron-
such polluted sourees, — private misery and public ser
vitude
* But Selene's education was regulated by different
views, and conducted upon severer principles; if that
can be called severity, which opens the mind to a sense
of moral and religious duties, and most effectually arms
it against the inevitable evils of life. With the rising
sun she left her bed, and accompanied me to the garden
or the vineyard. Her little hands were employed in
shortening the luxurious shoots of fruitful trees, that
supplied our table with wholesome and delicious fruits;
or in supporting the branches of such as sunk beneath
their load. Sometimes she collected water from a clear
and constant rill that rolled along the valley, and re-
cruited the force of planls that were exhausted by the
sun. With what delight did I view her innocent cheer-
fulness and assiduity ! With what pleasure did she re-
ceive the praises which I gave to her skill and industry
or hear the lessons of wisdom and the examples of vir
tuous women, which T used to read her at evening, out
of the writings of celebrated philosophers which I had
*>ollected in my travels
But such a life was too unchequered with misfortunt
WOMEN 47 V
ias?. The first stroke which attacked and almost
iestroyed my hope3 of good, was the untimely .oss oi
my dear and virtuous wife. The pestilential heats oi
autumn overpowered her tender frame, and raised a
consuming fever in her veins : for some time she strug-
gled against the disease; but at length her pure an^
innocent spirit forsook this earth for ever, and left m<~-
comfortless and forlorn, to mourn her loss !
1 1 will not, my worthy hosts, attempt to describe the
inexpressible distress which seized my soul at seeing
myself thus deserted. There are some philosophers
who aspire to triumph over human feelings, and con-
sider all tender affections as disgraceful weaknesses ;
r or my part, I have never pretended to that degree of
insensibility. I have, indeed, opposed as criminal, thai
habitual acquiescence in sorrow, which renders us unfit
for the discharge of our duties : but while I have en-
deavoured to act, I have never blushed at feeling, like a
man. Even now, that time has mitigaged the keenness
of the smart, I feel the habitual anguish of an incurable
wound. But let me rather hasten to relate the few re-
gaining events of a uniform unvaried life, than detain
you with a useless repetition of my sorrows.
1 Scarcely had time afforded me a feeble comfort,
when the recollection of past misfortunes was almost
extinguished by the new ones which overwhelmed my
country. The fertile plains of Syria abounded in all
the necessaries and conveniences of life : the vine seemeu
to grow spontaneously in every valley, and otier its luxu-
riant produce to every hand : the industrious insect, which
spins the wonderful substance called silk, out of its bow«
eis, though lately introduced into that part of Asia, seemed
480 SANDPORD AND MF-RTON.
to receive new vigour from the mildness of the climate
corn and oil, the noblest fruits, and the most salubrious
heros, were fouid in the garden of every peasant: and
the herds of cattle and horses which wandered over our
luxuriant pastures, equalled or surpassed all I had ob-
served in other countries. But this profusion of bless-
ings, instead of being attended with any beneficial effects,
produced nothing but a foolish taste for frivolous employ-
ment and sensuality ; feasts, and dances, and music, the
tricks of players, and exhibitions of buffoons, were more
attended to than all the serious and important cares of
life : every young man was a critic in the science of ad-
justing the folds of his robe, or of giving a studied negli-
gence to his hair ; every young woman was instructed
in every art that serves to consume time or endanger
modesty. Repeat to them an idle tale, the tricks of a
gamester, or the adventures of a singing girl, and every
audience listened with mute attention to the wonderful
narration ■ but tell them of the situation of their coun-
try, the wretched state of their civil and military disci-
pline, or of the numerous and warlike tribes of barba
rians which surround them, and every auditor would
steal away in silence, and leave the uninteresting
theme.
' In such a state of things, it was not long to be ex-
pected that my countrymen would be permitted to hold
the riches they abused, and wanted firmness to defend
A warlike tribe of barbarians burst forth from the
northern mountains of Asia, and spread themselves over
our fertile plains, which they laid waste like a consum-
ing tempest. Afte* ^ few ineffectual skirmishes, whicr
served to expose their weakness to the contempt of theii
LIBERTY, ETC. 481
enemies, they yielded without opposition to the invader ,
in tliis, indeed, more wise than to irritate him by a fruit-
less resistance ; and thus, in a few weeks, the leader of
an obscure tribe of barbarians saw himself become a
powerful monarch, and possessor of one the richest
provinces of Asia.
* l was sitting one evening at the door of my cottage,
gazing upon the fading glory of the setting sun, when
a man, of a majestic appearance, but with something fe-
rocious in his look, attended by several others, passed
by. As he approached my little garden, he seemed to
view it with satisfaction, and to unbend the habitual
sternness of his look : 1 asked him, if he would enter in
and taste the fruits with his companions ? He accepted
my offer ; and, entering into a shady arbour, I brought
him the most palatable fruits I could find, with milk and
other rustic fare, such as my farm afforded. He seemed
pleased with his entertainment, and, when he was de-
parting, thanked me with great affability, and bade me ask
a favour in return ; " which," added he, with a conscious
pride, " you can scarcely make too great either for my gra-
titude or power." '' If," answered T, for I began to suspect
that it was Arsaces, the leader of these barbarians, " your
power is indeed equal to every boon, give peace and li-
berty to my country." — " The first," said he, " I have
already given ; and, as to the second, it is impossible ;
their vices and effeminacy render them incapable of en-
joying it. Men that have neither virtue, temperance,
nor valour, can never want a master ; even though Ar-
saces were to withdraw his conquering troops. But ask
again," added he, " something for thyself, and let tke
41
482 SAIfDFORD AND MERTON.
favour be worthy me to bestow." — " Heaven." answered
.. with a smile, " has already given me everything I caa
want, when it gave the earth fertility, and me the power
,o laoour. All, therefore, that I request, O mighty con-
jueror, is, that you will please to order your men to step
aside from the newly cultivated ground, and not destroy
my vegetables." — " By heaven," said Arsaces, turning
to his companions, "there is something elevated in the
tranquillity and composure of this man's mind: and.
were I not Arsaces, T should be with pleasure Chares"
He then departed, but ordered me to attend him the
next day at the camp, and gave strict orders that none
of the soldiers should molest or injure my humble resi-
dence.
* I attended the great Arsaces at the lime he had ap-
pointed, and traversed the encampment of his troop with
admiration and regret. This people was a tribe of that
mighty empire which is called Scythia, whose inhabi
tants have so often issued from the deserts for the con
quest and destruction of their neighbours. This country
extends to «\n unknown length behind the most fertile
districts of Europe and Asia. The climate is cold in
winter, and the earth for several months covered with
snow ; but m summer it feels the enlivening influence
of the sun, <ind for that reason is possessed of an amaz-
ing degree i>f fertility. But as the inhabitants live re-
mote froro the sea, and possess few navigable rivers,
they ar? little acquainted with agriculture, or the arts
of life. Instead of trusting to the increase of their
fields for food, they raise prodigious herds of cattle ana
horsof in the luxuriant pastures which every where
abound. The Scythians, like the Arabians wander
THE SCYTHIANS. 488
over these immense spaces without a fixed 01 perma-
nent residence. By the side of laKes and rivers, where
the verdure is more constant, and the vegetation stronger,
they generally encamp, until the heats of the summei
compel them to ascend the mountains, and seek a cooler
residence. Their houses are composed of slender poles
covered with skins or a coarse cloth, and therefore easily
erected, or taken down and stowed in wagons, for the
convenience of transporting them in their marches.
Their diet is answerable to the poverty of their habita-
tions. They milk their herds, and, above all, their
mares: and preserve the produce in large bottles for
months together. This sour and homely mess is to
them the greatest dainty, and composes the chief of
their nourishment : to this they add the flesh of their cat-
tle and horses, which they kill, when afflicted with dis.
ease, but rarely in health.
This is the simple and uniform life of all the Scy-
thians : but this simplicity renders them formidable to
all their neighbours, and irresistible in war. Unsoftened
by ease or luxury, unacquainted with the artificial wants
of life, these nations pass their lives in manly exercises
and rustic employments : but horsemanship is the great-
est pride and passion of their souls : nor is there an in-
dividual who does not at least possess several of these
noble animals; which though small in size, are admira-
bly adapted for the fatigues of war and the chase, and
endowed with incomparable swiftness. As to the Scy-
thians themselves, they excel all other nations, unless it
be the Arabs, in their courage and address in riding'
without a saddle, and even a bridle, their young men
will vault upon an unbacked courser, and keep theii
484 8ANDFORD AND MERTON.
seats in spite of all his violent efforts, till they have ren
uered him tame and obedient to their will. In their mi
litary expeditions they neither regard the obstacles ot
nature nor the inclemency of the season : and their
Horses are accustomed to traverse rocks and mountains
with a facility that is incredible. Jf they reach a river.,
instead of waiting for the tedious assistance of boats and
bridges, the warrior divests himself of his clothes and
arms, which he places in a bundle upon the horse's
back, and then plunging into the stream, conducts him
over by the bridle. Even in the midst of winter, when
the hatred of other nations gives way to the inclemencies
of the season, the Scythian follows his military labours,
and rejoices to see the earth thick covered with frost and
snow, because it affords him a solid path in his excur-
sions ; neither the severest cold, nor the most violent
storms can check his ardour. Wrapt up in the thick
furs of animals, the patient horseman pursues his march,
while all his food for weeks together is comprised in a
little bag of seeds or corn. Javelins, and bows and
arrows, are the arms which these people are taught from
their infancy to use with surprising dexterity ; and, no
less dangerous when they fly than when they charge the
enemy in front, they are accustomed to shoot with an
unerring aim at their pursuers, and turn the fortune of
he battle. Such men are scarcely to be conquered by
he efforts of the most powerful nations or sovereigns ,
and, therefore, the proudest conquerors of the world have
failed in their attempts to subdue them.
Darius, one of the greatest kings which the vast em
pire of Persia ever obeyed, once attempted the exploit,
and had nearly perished in the attempt. He advanced with
THE PACKET. 43?
a powerful army, but ill prepared for such an expedition
into the Scythian wastes. The inhabitants, well ac-
quainted with the most effectual methods of defence,
transported their families and herds into the interior
parts of the country, and mounting their fleetest horses,
seemed to flv before the monarch ; who, infatuated with
pride and confidence, pursued the chase for several
days, until he found himself in the midst of solitary
deserts, totally destitute of all that human wants require,
where his army could neither advance nor retire, with-
out equal danger of perishing by thirst and famine.
When the Scythian horsemen saw him thus involved,
they began to check their speed ; instead of flying, as
usual, they hemmed him in on every side, and harassed
the army with continual attacks. It was then they sent
a present to the Persian king, the mysterious meaning
of which increased the terrors of his situation. A Scy-
thian, mounted upon a fiery steed, entered the camp at full
speed, and, regardless of danger or opposition, pene-
trated even to the royal tent, where Darius was holding
a council with his nobles. While they were all amazed
at this extraordinary boldness, the man leaped lightly
from his horse, and, placing a little bundle upon the
ground, vaulted up again with inconceivable agility, and
retired with the same happy expedition. The curiosity
of the monarch made him instantly order the packet to
be examined, which contained only a mouse, a bird, a
fish, and a bundle of arrows. Silence and astonishment
for some time seized the assembly, till at length the
Kins: observed, that he thought the present which the
8cytnians had sent could signify nothing but their sub
41*
*8fl SANDFORD AND MERTOW.
mission to his arms. " The mouse," said he, u must
represent the earth, he resides in holes which he digs in
the soil ; the fish inhabits the water, and the bird resides
m air. By sending me, therefore, all these various ani
mals they mean to signify that they resign their a'r
their waters, and their earth, to my dominion : nor ia
the bundle of arrows more difficult to be explained ;
these constitute their principal defence, and by sending
them to an enemy, they can intimate nothing but terror
and submission." — All who were present applauded this
discourse of the monarch, excepting Gobrias, a man of
singular wisdom and experience, who, when he was
pressed to declare his sentiments, spoke to him thus :
"It is with the greatest reluctance, O king, that I find
myself compelled to explain these presents of our ene-
mies in a very different manner. That the Scythians,
who have hitherto shown no marks either of fear or
submission, should, on a sudden, feel so great a terror
of the Persian arms, I cannot easily believe : more
especially when I consider that our army is very much
reduced by the distress it has suffered, and environed
m every side by the enemy, whose boldness visibly
increases with our necessities. What, therefore, I
should infer from this extraordinary present is this :
they intimate that unless, like the mouse, you can dig
your passage through the earth, or skim the air like the
bird, or glide through waters with the fish, you shall
certainly perish by the Scythian arrows." — Such was
f .he sentiment of Gobrias, and all the assembly was
struck with the evident truth of his interpretation and
the king himself began to perceive and repent his rash-
ness ; instead, therefore, of advancing farther into
THE ENTERTAINMENT. 487
deserts which afforded no subsistence, he resolved to
attempt a retreat : this, however, he was not able to
effect, without the loss of the greatest part of his troops,
who perished by thirst and famine, and the continued
attacks of the enemy.
* Nor was the expedition of Lysimachus, another
powerful king, against this people, less memorable or
less unfortunate. His army was defeated, and he him-
self taken prisoner ; but, instead of meeting with that
cruelty which we are accustomed to expect from barba-
rians, he experienced the greatest moderation and
humanity from his conquerors. The general of the
Scythians invited his captive to a solemn festival, in
which he took care to assemble every circumstance of
juxury and magnificence which prevailed in polished
nations. The most exquisite meats were served up tc
table, and the most generous wines sparkled in golden
bowls of the exactest workmanship. Lysimachus was
equally delighted with the elegance of the repast and
the politeness of the entertainer : but he was extremely
surprised, that, instead of sharing in the feast, or even
sitting down at table, the Scythian leader reposed in the
corner of a tent, upon the bare ground, and satisfied
his hunger with the most coarse and ordinary fare, pre-
pared with all the simplicity of his country's manners.
When the entertainment was finished, he asked Lysi-
machus which method of life appeared to him the most
agreeable? Lysimachus could not conceal his pre
ference of the more refined and luxurious dainties, or
his dislike of the Scythian diet. " If, therefore," replied
his generous host, «' you feel so great a contempt for
what this country produces, and so strong a preference
488 SANDFORD AND MERTOIf.
for the productions of jour own, what but madness 'J
king, can have tempted you to come so far in order to
subdue men that live in a manner you despise? Is it
not much greater wisdom to be contented with those ad
vantages, which you prize so highly, than to expose
them to a certain hazard, for the chance of acquiring
what would afford no pleasure or satisfaction ? But let
this lesson be sufficient to teach you moderation. A
country which produces nothing but iron is not easily
conquered ; nor are men, who have been from their in-
fancy inured to every hardship, to be vanquished by
curled and perfumed soldiers, who cannot live without
baths, and music, and daily feasts. Be contented,
therefore, for the future, to number the Scythians among
your friends ; and rather pray that the gods may keep
them in ignorance of the superiority of your method of
living, lest a desire of tasting it should tempt them to
desert their own country and invade yours." With this
discourse he generously restored Lysimachus to liberty,
and suffered him to lead back the shattered remains of
his numerous army.
* Such was the nation which had invaded Syria and
easily triumphed over the efforts of an effeminate and
un warlike people. As I passed through the camp, I
was astonished at the order and regularity which pre-
vailed among these barbarians. Some were exercising
heir horses in the mimic representation of a battle ; part
fled with incredible speed, while the rest pursued, and
darted blunted javelins at their antagonists. Yet even
those who fled, would frequently turn upon their pur
■uers, and make them repent their rashness. Some,
while their horses were running in full speed, would
WARLIKE NATIONS. 48fi
rault from off their backs to others that accompanied
them ; some would gallop by a mark erected for their
arrows, and, when they had passed it a considerable
way, turn themselves round upon their horses, and
transfix ^it with an unerring aim. I saw many who
vaulted upon their horses, and placed themselves be-
tween two naked swords, which would have given them
certain death, had they swerved ever so little from the
just direction. In another part of the camp, I observed
the children, who imitated all the actions of their fathers,
and bended little bows adapted to their strength, or
guided horses of an inferior statue along the plain.
Their women were indeed inferior to the Syrians in
beauty and elegance, but seemed to be of a more robust
constitution, and more adapted to produce and educate
warriors. I saw no gold, no jewels, no vain and costly
apparel ; but all seemed busy in domestic cares, preparing
the food of their families, or tending upon their infants.
* At length I reached the royal tent, which scarcely
differed from the rest in its structure or simplicity ; and
was immediately introduced to the great Arsaces. He
received me with a courtesy which had nothing of the
barbarian in it, seated me familiarly by his side, and en-
tered into a long conversation with me, upon the laws,
and manners, and customs of the different nations I had
seen. I was surprised at the vigour and penetration
which I discovered in this untutored warrior's mind.
Unbiased by the mass of prejudices which we acquire
"n cities, even from our earliest childhood, unincumbered
by forms and ceremonies which contract the under-
standing while they pretend to improve the manners, he
seemea to possess a certain energy of soul which neve?
490 SANUFORD AND MERTON.
missed the mark : nature in him had produced the same
effects that study and philosophy do in others. But
what amazed me more than all, was to rind this Scy
thian chief as well acquainted with the state and conse
quence of our manners, as if he had passed his life in
Greece or Syria, instead of the plains and forests of his
own domain. He entertained a rooted contempt for all
the arts that soften the body and mind, under the pre
tence ol adding to the elegancies of life : these, he said
were more efficacious agents to reduce men to slavery
than the swords and arrows of their enemies.
1 One day I remember that some of our principal mer
— judging of the mind of their conqueror by their own — ■
brought to him a celebrated dancer ; who, at that time,
engaged the whole attention of our city, and seemed to
interest it much more than the loss of liberty. This
man, who did not doubt that he should enchant the soul
of a Scythian barbarian, by the Fame arts which had
enraptured his refined audiences at home, exerted
himself with an agility that extorted the loudest ap-
plause from all the spectators but Arsaces. At length,
one of our countrymen took the liberty of asking
the monarch, what he thought of this extraordinary
performance? "I think," replied he, coldly, "that
it would gain him great credit among a nation of
monKeys." Another time, he was present at the exhi-
bitions of a celebrated musician, who was reputed to
possess unrivalled skill in playing soft and melting tunes
upon the lyre. All the audience seemed to feel the in
fluence of his art, by their inarticulate murmurs of ad-
miration, and the languishing postures of their bodies.
When the exhibition was finished, the musician advancer*
THE CHIEF ETC. 49
ami i the united plaudits of the audience, as if to receive
the just tribute of approbation from Arsaces : but he
with a stern look, said to him, " Friend, I permit thee to
plaj every night before the Syrians : but if thy lyre is
sver heard to sound in the presence of my Scythians, !
denounce certain death for the offence," — Another time
an officious glutton of our city introduced to him, with
great solemnity, two men, whose talents he assured him
were unequalled in their different professions. The one,
ne said, adjusted hair with such dexterity, that he could
give an artificial beauty to every countenance ; and the
other possessed such unrivalled skill in cooking a re-
past, that even the soberest guest was tempted to com-
mit intemperance. " My soldiers," replied Arsaces
" are accustomed to adjust their locks with the point of
their arrows, nor does our nation consider a bloated
paunch, and an unwieldy shape, as any accomplish-
ment in warriors: all, therefore, that I can do for
these gentlemen, is, to depute one of them to comb
my horse's tail, and the other to feed the hogs of the
army."
* After I had conversed some time with this barbarian
chief, who heard me with the greatest attention, the
hour of refreshment for the army approached, and I was
preparing to retire ; but the general stopped me with a
smile, and told me, I had already entertained him with
the greatest hospitality, and that therefore it was just
that I should stay and taste the Scythian food. A bit
of dried flesh, which I afterwards found was that of a
horse, some sour, coagulated milk with an infusion oi
certain herbs, thickened with a coarse kind of flour
s^re tnen brought in, and placed upon the ground, j
192 SANDFORD AND MERTOIf
had learned, during my travels in different countries, U
discard the false antipathies which so many nations en,
tertain against the diet as well as manners of each other
Whatever is adapted to support life is proper for the food
of man , habit will reconcile us to every kind of food ;
and he that can accustom himself to be the most easily
contented is happiest, and best prepared for performing
the duties of life. I therefore placed myself by the side
of Arsaces, and fed without any visible repugnance upon
a diet, which would have excited abhorrence in the
minds of ai{ my countrymen. With them it was a work
of the greatest importance to settle the formalities of a
meal : tc contrive a new and poignant sauce, to combine
contrary flavours in a pickle, to stimulate the jaded appe-
tite to new exertions, till reason and every thing human
sunk under the undigested mass of food, were reckoned the
highest efforts of genius : even the magistrate did not
blush to display a greater knowledge of cookery than
of the laws ; the debates of the senate itself was often
suspended by the fear of losing a repast ; and many of
our generals prided themselves more on the arrange-
ment of their tables, than the martia' evolution of their
troops.
' After we had eaten some time, Aisaces asked me
what I thought of the Scythian method of living. " Tc
jpeak my sentiments," said I, " it is more formidable to
your enemies, than agreeable to your friends." He
smiled at my sincerity, and I departed : but from this
hour he distinguished me with marks of peculiar favour,
and admitted me to all his councils.
'■ This envied mark of distinction gave me no othei
SYRIANS, ETC.
ja
pleasure than as it sometimes enabled me to be usefu
to mv unhappy countrymen, and mitigate the rigour
of their conquerors. Indeed, while the great Arsacea
lived, his love of justice and order were so great, that
oven the conquered were safe from all oppression : the
peasant pursued his useful labours, unterrified by the
march of armies, or, unsolicited, brought the produce
of his fields to a voluntary market : merchants from all
:he neighbouring nations crowded to our ports, attracted
by ".he order and justice which were enforced in every
part of Arsaces' dominions ; and even the vanquished
themselves, defended from oppression and protected
in their possessions, considered the success of the Scy-
thians rather as a salutary revolution, than as a barba-
rian conquest.
' Such was the pleasing prospect of affairs, when an
unexpected disease, the consequence of unremitted ex-
ertions, put an end to the glorious life of our conqueror;
and with him perished all hopes of safety or happiness
to the Syrians. His authority alone was capable of
restraining so many needy chieftains, so many victorious
barbarians : the spirit of rapine and plunder, so long
represr, began now to spread through all the army :
every oiticer was an independent tyrant, that ruled with
despotic authority, and punished, as rebellion, the least
opposition to his will. The fields were now ravaged,
the cities plundered, the ir dustrious peasants driven
iway like herds of cattle, to labour for the caprice of
mli-eling masters, or sold in distant regions as slaves.
Now it was that the miserable and harassed Syriant
began to find, that the riches which thev «o muci
42
494 SANDFORL AND MERTOH.
esteemed were but the causes of their ruin, instead of
being instrumental to their safety. The poor, accus-
tomed to hardship, have little to fear amid the vicissi'
tudes of life : the brave can always find a refuge in
their own valour: but all the bitterness of existence is
reserved for those who have neither courage to defend
what they most value, nor fortitude to bear the loss.
4 To increase the weight of our misfortunes, new
tribes of barbarians, attracted by the success of their
countrymen, issued from their deserts, and hastened tc
share the spoil. But rapine admits not faith or partner-
ship ;. and it was not long before the vanquished beheld
their conquerors animated by implacable rage against
each other, and suffering in turn the violence and cruel-
ties they had inflicted.
; At length, one of the principal officers of Arsaces
who is said originally to have descended from the
mountain which you inhabit, was raised to empire by
the successful efforts of his soldiers. He has already
attacked and destroyed all his competitors, and assem-
bled under his banners the remainder of their forces.
Tigranes (for thus he is named) possesses all the cou-
rage and activity of Arsaces, but he is destitute of his
generosity and clemency. His ambition is vast and
boundless ; he grasps at universal empire, and rejoices
to scatter ruin and destruction in his way : he has
already subjected all the maritime cities that derive their
origin from Greece, together with the fertile plains of
Syria. These mountains, inhabited by a bold and
hardy race of men, now present a barrier to his enter-
prising spirit,* and I am assured he already rnei 4 \tatea
the conquest His soldiers are drawn together fr^re
THE ASSEMBLY, ETC. 490
every part; they swarm like ravening wolves aiong the
fields; and nothing can escape their fury. In vain did
I think myself safe in the humble obscurity of my
cottage, and the reputed favour of the great Arsaces.
Yesterday a lawless band, not contented with destroying
my harvest and plundering my little property, seized
my daughter and me, and dragged us away in chains.
What farther injuries, what farther insults we might
have suffered, it is impossible to determine ; since
Heaven was pleased to effect our deliverance when we
had least reason to expect it.'
Such was the history of Chares, which Sophron and
his family listened to with fixed attention. When he
had finished, the father of Sophron again embraced the
venerable stranger, and assured him of all the safety
whirh their mountains could bestow. But, added he, if
so imminent a danger is near, it behoves us to consult
for the general safety : let us assemble all our friends
and neighbours, that they may consider whether life is
of more consequence than liberty ; and, if they determine
to retain that freedom which they have received from their
ancestors, by what means it may be best defended. Soph-
ron then immediately went out, and, ascending a neigh-
bouring rock, thus shouted out in a voice which echoed
over the neighbouring valleys: Arm, G ye inhabitants
of Lebanon, and instantly meet in council ; for a power-
ful invader is near, and threatens you with death o«
slavery !' This sound was instantly repeated by all
who heard it ; so that in a short time the intelligence
was dispersed to the very confines of the country.
Tt was not long before a numerous assembly was
convened. The aged appeared w ; th all the majesiir
5 96 SANDFORD AND MERTOIf.
dignity of wisdom and experience ; their countenances
mdeed, indicated the ravages of time, but temperance
and exercise had preserved them from the loathsome
diseases which grow on luxury and indolence. They
were attended by their sons in all the pride of youth and
vigour, who rushed along in arms and seemed to breathe
deliberate rage and unconquerable opposition. When
they were all assembled on a spacious plain, Sophron
rose, and with a becoming modesty recited the adven
tures of the preceding night, and the alarming intelli-
gence he had just received. He had scarcely finished,
before a general cry of indignation burst unanimously
from the whole assembly. When it had a little sub-
sided, a venerable old man, whose beard, white as the
snow upon the summits of the mountains, reached down
to his middle, slowly rose, and leaning upon his staff,
spoke thus: "Ninety years have I tended my flocks
amid these mountains, and during all that time I have
never seen a human being who was bold enough to pro-
pose to the inhabitants of Lebanon that they should fear
death more than infamy, or submit to the vassals of a
tyrant." At this a second cry, which seemed to rend
the very heavens, was raised, and farther deliberation
judged unnecessary, except upon the most effectual
means of defence. For this purpose the aged and more
experienced retired to a little distance to consult. The)
were not long in their deliberations : it was unanimously
agreed that all who were able to bear arms should be
embodied, and wait for the approach of the enemy
within the boundaries of their own mountains. The
nature of the country, always rough, and in many parti
«i accessible, would afford them, they thought, sufneien
WARFARE, ETC. 497
advantages even against the more numerous and better
disciplined troops of the invader : and, by the common
consent of all, Sophron was named the general of his
country, and invested with supreme authority for its
defence.
When these measures had been resolved upon, the
assembly dispersed, and Sophron was left alone with
Chares. It was then the soldier thus accosted him with
a deep sigh ; * Did success, O virtuous Sophron, depend
entirely upon the justice of the cause, or upon the cour-
age and zeal of its defenders, I should have little doubt
concerning the event of the present contest : for I can
cruly say, that in all the various countries I have
visited, my eyes have never seen a more martial race
than I have this day beheld assembled : nor can I doubt
ihat their sentiments correspond to their appearance
All, therefore, that can be effected by patience, activity,
and dauntless courage, will be achieved by your coun
trymeio in defence of their liberty. But war, unfor-
tunately, is a trade, where long experience frequently
confers advantages which no intrepidity can balance.
The troops which are now approaching, have been for
years inured to the practice of slaughter : they join to a
courage, which defies every danger, a knowledge of
every fraud and subtilty which can confound or baffle
an adversary. In bodily strength, in numbers, your
countrymen are superior ; even in courage, and the
©ontempt of danger, they are probably not inferior to
their enemies ; but such are the fatal effects of military
skhi and discipline, that I dread the even of a comba
wun such an army and such a leader.'
42'
498 SANDFOliD AND MEKIOS
Alas !' answered SoDhron, : how well do the mature.
reflections of your wisdom accord with my presa^jng
fears ! 1 know that my countrymen will perform e«ery
thing that can be effected by men in tiieir situation, and
that thousands will generously sacrifice their lives rather
than abandon the cause they have undertaken to defend ;
yet, when I consider the superior advantages of our
enemies, my fears are no less active than your own.
This consolation, however, remains, that I shall either
see my country victorious, or avoid the miseries which
will attend her ruiE-'
Hear me, then,' replied Chares. * The virtues of
your friends, my own obligations to yourself, and the
desire I feel to oppose the career of mad ambition, con-
•pire to wrest from me a dreadful secret, which I have
nitheno buried in my bosom, and had determined tc
conceal from the knowledge of mankind, i have al-
ready tol'd you that much of my life has been dedicate^
to the acquisition of knowledge, and the investigation of
the laws of nature. Not contented with viewing the ap-
pearance of things as they strike our senses, I have en-
deavoured to penetrate into the deeper recesses of nature,
and to discover those secrets which are concealed from
the greater part of mankind. For this purpose I have
tried innumerable experiments concerning the manner in
which bodies act upon each other ; I have submitted the
plants, the stones, the minerals, which surround us, to
the violence of all-consuming fires ; I have examined
their structure, and the different principles which com
pose them, with the patient labour and perseverance of
a long life. Tn the course of these inquiries I have made
mam curious and important discoveries, but one above
DEFENCE. 496
(he rest, which 1 will now impart under the promise of
eternal and inviolable secrecy. Know, then, that I
have found out an easy and expeditious combination of
common materials, the effect of which is equal or supe-
rior to the most potent and destructive agents in nature
Neither the proudest city can maintain its walls, nor the
strongest castle its bulwarks, against the irresistible at-
tacks of this extraordinary composition. Increase but
the quantity, and the very rocks and mountains will be
torn asunder with a violence that equals that of earth-
quakes. Whole armies, proud of their triumphs, may
be in an instant scattered and destroyed, like the sum*
mer's dust before the whirlwind ; and, what increases the
prodigy, a single man may securely give death to thou-
sands. This composition I have hitherto concealed, in
pity to the miseries of mankind ; but, since there ap-
pears no other method of preserving the virtuous inha-
bitants of these mountains from slavery and ruin, I am
determined to employ it in their defence. Give orders,
therefore, that a certain number of your countrymen
provide me with the ingredients that I shall indicate, and
expect the amplest success from your own valour, as-
sisted by such powerful auxiliaries.'
Sophron said every thing to Chares which such an
unexpected mark of confidence deserved, and instantly
received his orders, and prepared to execute them with
the greatest alacrity. Chares, meanwhile, was indefati-
gable in the execution of his project ; and it was not long
before he had prepared a sufficient quantity jo provide
for the common defence.
Tigranes now approached with the rage and confi-
dence of a lion that invades a flock of domestic animals
&00 SANDFOBD AND MERTOK.
He had long forgotten all the ties which attain men to
the place of their birth ; and neither time nor distance
had been able to extinguish the hatred he had conceived
to Sophron. Scarcely did he deign to send an ambas-
sador before his army : he however despatched one with
an imperious message, requiring all the inhabitants of
Lebanon to submit to his victorious arms, or threatening
them with the worst extremities of war.
When the ambassador returned, and reported the fixed
determination of Sophron and his countrymen, he was
inflamed with rage, and ordered his army to advance to
the attack. They marched without opposition till they
entered the mountainous districts, where all the bravest
inhabitants were ranged in arms to meet the invadei.
Then arose the noise of war and the clang of arms ;
then man encountered man, and wounds and death were
seen on every side. The troops of Tigranes advanced
in close array, with long protended spears ; the inhabi-
tants of Lebanon were more lightly armed, and with
invincible courage, endeavoured to break the formidable
battalion of their enemies. They rushed with fury upon
the dreadful range of weapons, and even the wounded and
dying, endeavoured to beat down their points, and open
a way to their companions.
Sophron was seen conspicuous in every part of the
field, encouraging his companions with his voice, and
jaore by his actions. Wherever he turned his steps,
he was followed by the bravest youth of his part) , and
there the efforts and the slaughter were always greatest.
Five times, covered with blood and dust, he made a des»
oerate charge upon the troops of Tigranes, and five
rm^s did he force his bravest soldiers to givs ground
THE EARTHQUAKE. 50\
At length the superiority of discipline and experience
began to prevail over the generous, but more unequaJ
efforts of the defenders. The veterans of Tigranes per*
ceived their advantage, and pressed the enemy with re-
doubled vigour.
This was the decisive moment which Chares had
foreseen and provided for : in an insiant the bands of
Lebanon retreat by the orders of Sophron, with a pre-
cipitation bordering upon flight. Tigranes, supposing
himself certain of victory, orders his troops to advance
and decide the fortune of the battle; but, while they are
rashly preparing to obey, a sudden noise is heard that
equals the loudest thunders : the earth itself irembles
with a convulsive motion under their feet, then bursts
assunder with a violence that nothing can resist ! Hun-
dreds are in an instant swallowed up, or dashed against
rocks, and miserably destroyed ! Meanwhile, all nature
seems to be convulsed around; the rocks themselves are
torn from their solid base, and, with their enormous frag-
ments, crush whole bands of miserable wretches be
neath ! Clouds of smoke obscure the field of battle,
and veil the combatants in a dreadful shade ; which is,
from time to time, dispelled by flashes of destructive
fire ! Such a succession of horrors daunted even the
most brave ; scarcely could the troops of Lebanon, who
had been prepared to expect some extraordinary mter.
position, maintain their post, or behold the spectacle of
their enemy's ruin ; but the bands of Tigranes were
struck with the wildest consternation, and fled with trem-
bling steps over the field. And now these prodigies
were succpeded by an awful interval of quiet ; the peaU
502 SAND FORD AND JVIERTON.
of bursting thunder were no longer heard, the lightnings
ceased to flash, the mists that darkened the scene were
rolled away, and discovered the various fortunes of the
fight. Then the voice of Sophron was heard, exhorting
his companions to pursue the fugitives and complete
their victory. They rushed forward like angry lions to
the chase, but all resistance was at an end; and So-
phron, who now perceived that the enemy was irre-
trievably broken, checked the ardour of his men, and
estreated them to spare the vanquished. They obeyed
his voice ; and, after having chased them beyond the
utmost boundaries of Lebanon, returned in triumph amid
the praises and acclamations of their joyful families
whom they had preserved from slavery by their valour.
They then examined the field of battle, and, collecting
all who had any remains of life, they treated them with
the greatest humanity, binding up their wounds, and ad-
ministering to all their, necessities.
Among the thickest dead was found the breathless
body of Tigranes, miserably shatterd and disfigured,
but still exhibiting evident marks of passion and fero-
city Sophron could not behold, without compassion.
the friend of his early years, and the companion of his
youthful sports. « Unhappy man,' said he, ' thou hast
at length paid the price of thy ungovernable ambition !
How much better would it have been to have tended thy
flocks upon the mountains, than to have blazed an angry
meteor, and set for ever amid the curses of thy country
He then covered the body with a military vest, and
ordered it to be honourably burned upon a mighty
funeral pile which was prepared for all the dead.
The next day an immense quantity of spoil was col«
lflE SPOIL, ETC. 503
lected that had been abandoned by the troops of Ti
granes in their flight. The simple inhabitants of
Lebanon, the greater part of whom had never beec
beyond the limits of their mountains, were astonished
at such a display of luxury and magnificence. Already
the secret poison of sensuality and avarice began to
inflame their hearts', as they gazed on costly hangings,
enriched with gold and silver, on Persian carpets, and
drinking vessels of the most exquisite workmanship :
already had they begun to differ about the division of
these splendid trifles, when Sophron, who marked the
growing mischief, and remembered the fatal effects
which Chares had described in his travels, rose, and
proposed tc his countrymen, that the arms of their con-
quered eneinies should be carefully preserved for the
public defence, but that all the rest of the spoil should
be consumed upon the funeral pile prepared for the
dead, lest the simplicity of the inhabitants of Lebanon
should be corrupted, and the happy equality and union
which had hitherto prevailed among them, be inter-
rupted. This proposal was instantly applauded by all
the older and wiser part of the assembly, who rejoiced
: n seeing the evils averted which they had so much
reason to apprehend : nor did those of a different cha«
racter dare to express their sentiments, or attempt any
open opposition.
From this time, Sophron was universally honoured by
all, as the most virtuous and valiant of his nation. He
passed the rest of his life in peace and tranquillity, con-
tented with the exercise of the same rural employments
which had engaged his childhood. Chares, whose vir-
tues and knowledge were equally admirable, was pre-
504 SANDFORD AND HBRTOM.
sented at the public expense, with a small but fertilf
tract of land, sufficient to supply him with all the
comforts of life : this the grateful inhabitants of the
mountains continually cultivated for him, as a memorial
of the signal assistance he had afforded them: and
here, contented with the enjoyment of security and
freedom, he passed the remaining part of his life in the
contemplation of nature, and the delightful intercourse
of virtuous friendship.
When miss Simmons had finished, Tommy expressed
his astonishment at the latter part of the story. ' Is it
possible,' said he, l there can be any thing of so extra-
ordinary a nature as to burst the very rocks asunder
and destroy an army at once ?'-— * Have you, then,
never heard the explosion of a gun, or are you ignorant
of the destructive effects of the powder with which they
charge it ?' said Mr. Barlow.
T. Yes, sir ; but that is nothing to what Chares did
in his story.
Mr. B. That is only because it is used in very incon-
siderable portions ; but were you to increase the quan-
tity, it would be capable of effecting every thing which
you heard miss Simmons describe. When nations are
at war with each other, it is now universally the agent
of destruction. They have large tubes of iron, called
cannons, into which they ram a considerable quantity
of powder, together with a large iron ball, as big as you
are able to lift. They then set fire to the powder, which
explodes with so much violence that the ball flies out
and destroys not only every living thing it meets with,
out even demolishes the strongest walls that can be
raised Sometimes it is buried in considerable quanti
FICKLENESS. 50C
ties in the earth, and then they contrive to inflame it,
and to escape in time. When the fire communicates
with the mass, it is all inflamed in an instant, and pro*
duces the horrible effects you have heard described. As
such are the irresistible effects of gunpowder, it is no
wonder that even a victorious army»should be stopped
in their progress by such a dreadful and unexpected
event.
T. That is true, indeed ; and I declare Chares wa*
a very good and sensible man. Had it not been for
him, these brave inhabitants of Lebanon must have
been enslaved. I now plainly perceive that a man may
be of much more consequence by improving his mind
in various kinds of knowledge, even though he is poor,
than by all the finery and magnificence he can acquire.
I wish, with all my heart, that Mr. Barlow had been so
good as to read this story to the young gentlemen and
ladies that were lately here : I think it would have made
a great impression upon their minds, and would have
prevented their feeling so much contempt for poor
Harry, who is better and wiser than them all, though
he does not powder his hair, or dress so genteelly.
1 Tommy,' said Mr. Merton, with a kind of con-
temptuous smile, { why should you believe that the
hearing of a single story would change the characters
of all your late friends, when neither the good in«
structions you have been so long receiving from Mi
Barlow, nor the intimacy you have had with Harry,
were sufficient to restrain your impetuo is temper, or
prevent you from treating him in the shameful manner
you have done ?'
43
506 SANDFOkD AND MERTON.
Tommy appeared very much abashed with his father •
rebuke. He hung down his head in silence a consider-
able time; at length he faintly said: * Oh, sii, I have,
ndeed, acted very ill ; I have rendered myself un«
worthy the affection of all my best friends ; but do not,
pi ay do not give me up entirely. You shall see how I
will behave for the future : and if ever I am guilty of
the same faults again, I consent that you shall abandon
me for ever.' Saying this, he silently stole out of the
room, as if. intent upon some extraordinary resolution.
His father observed his motions, and, smiling, said to
Mr. Barlow, 'What can this portend? This boy is
changeable as a weathercock : every blast whirls him
round and round upon his centre, nor will he ever fix, I
fear, in any direction.' — ' At least,' replied Mr. Barlow,
: you have the greatest reason to rejoice in his present
impressions, which are good and estimable : and I fear
it is the lot of most human beings to exhaust almost
every species of error before they fix in truth and
virtue.'
Tommy now entered the room, but with a remarkable
change in his dress and manner. He had combed the
powder out of his hair, and demolished the elegance of
his curls ; he had divested his dress of every appearance
of finery ; and even his massy and ponderous buckles,
so long the delight of his heart and the wonder of hit
female friends, were takes from his shoes, and replaced
by a pair of the plainest form and appearance. In this
nabiliment, he appeared so totally changed from what
he was, that even his mother, who had lately become a
little sparing of her observations, could not hHp exclaim-
trig, ' What, in the name of wonder, has the boy been
THE LAMB, ETC. 507
doing now? Why, Tommy, I protest you have made
yourself a perfect fright, and you look more like a
plough-boy than a young gentleman.'
1 Mamma,' answered Tommy, gravely, * I am now
only what I ought always to have been. Had I been
contented with this dress before, I never should have
imitated such a parcel of coxcombs as you have lately
had at your house ; nor pretended to admire Miss Ma-
tilda's music, which, I own, tired me as much as Harry,
and had almost set me asleep ; nor should I have ex-
posed myself at the play and the ball ; and, what is
worst of all, I should have avoided all my shameful be-
haviour to Harry at the bull-bating. But, from this
time, I shall apply myself to the study of nothing but
reason and philosophy ; and therefore I have bid adieu
to dress and finery for ever.'
It was with great difficulty that the gentlemen could
refrain from laughing at Tommy's harangue, delivered
with infinite seriousness and solemnity ; they, however
concealed their emotions, and encouraged him to perse-
vere in such a laudable resolution. But, as the night
was now pretty far advanced, the whole family retired
to bed.
The next morning early, Tommy arose, and dressed
himself with his newly-adopted simplicity ; and, as soon
as breakfast was over, prevailed with Mr. Barlow to ac-
company him to Harry Sandford's ; but he did not for-
get to take with him the lamb, which he had caressed
and fed with constant assiduity ever since he had so
valiantly rescued him from his devouring enemy. As
hey approached the house, the first object which
ommy distinguished was his little friend at some dis
508 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
tance, who was driving his father's sheep along the com
mon. At this sight his impetuosity could no longer b€
restrained ; and, springing forward with all his speed,
he arrived in an instant, panting, and out of breath, and
ancapable of speaking. Harry, who knew his friend,
and plainly perceived the disposition with which he ap-
proached, met him with open arms, so that the reconci^
liation was begun and completed in a moment ; and Mr,
Barlow, who now arrived with the lamb, had the plea-
sure of seeing his little pupils mutually giving and
receiving every unaffected mark of the warmest af-
fection.
* Harry,' said Mr. Barlow, « I bring you a little friend,
who is sincerely penitent for his offences, and comes to
own the faults he has committed.' — ' That I am, indeed.'
said Tommy, a little recovered, and able to speak : * but
I have behaved so ill, and been such an ungrateful fel-
low, that I am afraid Harry will never be able to forgive
me.' — * Indeed, indeed,' said Harry, c there you do me
the greatest injustice ; for I have already forgotten every
thing but your former kindness and affection.' « And
I,' answered Tommy, * will never forget how ill, how
ungratefully I have used ye J, nor the goodness with
which you now receive me.' Tommy then recollected
his lamb, and presented it to his friend : while Mr. Bar-
low told him the story of its rescue, and the heroism
exerted in its defence. Harry seemed to receive equal
pleasure from the restoration of his favourite, and the
affection Tommy had shown in its preservation ; and,
taking him by the hand, he led him into a small bu!
neat and convenient house, where he was most cordially
welcomed by Harry's family.
THE DINNER. 50?
In a corner of the chimney sat the honest Black who
had performed so signal a service "it the bull-baiting
* Alas !* said Tommy, ' there is another instance of my
negligence and ingratitude ; I now see that one fau?
brings on another without end.' Then, advancing to the
Black, he took him kindly by the hand, and thanked him
for the preservation of his life. « Little master,' replied
he, * you are extremely welcome to all I have done; I
would at any time risk my own safety to preserve one
of my fellow-creatures : and, if I have been of any use, I
have been amply repaid by the kindness of this little
boy, your friend, and all his worthy family.' — { That is
not enough,' said Tommy, ' and you shall soon find what
it is to oblige a person like (here a stroke of pre-
sumption was just coming out of Tommy's mouth, but,
recollecting himself, he added) a person like my father.'
And now he addressed himself to Harry's mother, a ve-
nerable, decent women, of a middle age, and his two
sisters, plain, modest, healthy-looking girls, a little older
than their brother. All these he treated with so much
cordiality and attention, that all the company were de
lighted with him ; so easy is it for those who possess
rank and fortune to gain the good-will of their fellow.
creatures : and so inexcusable is that surly pride which
renders many of them deservedly odious.
When dinner was ready, he sat down with the rest
and, as it was the custom here for every body to wait
upon himself, Tommy insisted upon their suffering him
to conform to the established method. The food, indeed,
was not very delicate, but it was wholesome, clean, and
served up hot to table ; an advantage which is not al-
ways found in elegant apartments. Tomoy ate with 8
510 SANDrORD AND MERTON,
considerable appetite, and seemed to enjoy his new situa
Uon as much as if he had never experienced any other,
After the dinner was removed, he thought he might witk
propriety gratify the curiosity he felt to converse witr
the Black upon fighting bulls : for nothing had more as*
tonished him than the account he had heard of his cou
rage, and the ease with which he had subdued so terrible
an animal. ' My friend,' said he, « I suppose in your
own country you have been very much used to bull-bait-
ings ; otherwise you never would have dared to encoun-
ter such a fierce creature : I must confess, though I can
tame most animals, I never was more frightened in my
life, than when I saw him break loose ; and, without
your assistance, I do not know what would have become
of me.'
* Master,' replied the Black, * it is not in my own
country that I have learned to manage these animals.
There I have been accustomed to several kinds of hunt-
ing much more dangerous than this ; and, considering
how much you white people despise us blacks, I own
I was very much surprised to see so many hundreds
of you running away from such an insignificant enemy
as a poor tame bull.
Tommy blushed a little at the remembrance of the
prejudices he had formerly entertained concerning bla ;ks
and his own superiority ; but, not choosing now to enter
upon the subject, he asked the man, where then he had
acquired so much dexterity in taming them ?
' I will tell you, master,' replied the Black. — « When 1
lived as a slave among the Spaniards at Buenos Ayres,
it used to be a common employment of the people to go
into the woods and hunt cattle down for their subsna-
THE COMBAT. 511
ioncc* The hunter mounts his fleetest horse, and takes
with him a strong cord of a considerable length : wheu
he sees one of the wild kind, which he destines for his
prey, he pursues it at full speed, and never fails to over
take it by the superior swiftness of his horse. While
he is thus employed, he holds the cord ready, at the end
of which a sliding noose is formed ; and, when he is at
a convenient distance, throws it from him witfi such a
certain hand, that the beast is entangled by one of his
legs, after which it is impossible for him to eseape.
* That you may form a more clear idea of what a
man is capable of executing, with courage and address,
I will relate a most extraordinary incident to which I
was witness during my residence in that part of the
world. A certain man, a native of the country, had
committed some offence, for which he was condemned
to labour, several years in the galleys. He found
means to speak to the governor of the town, and be-
sought him to change the nature of his punishment. " I
have been brought up," said he, " a warrior, and fear
dishonour, but not death. Instead of consuming my
strength and spirits in such an ignominious employ-
ment, let me have an opportunity of achieving something
vorthy to be behel 3, or of perishing like a brave man in
the attempt. In a few days a solemn feast is to be cele-
brated, at which you will not fail to be present, attended
by all your people. I will there, in the presence of the
whole city, encounter the fiercest bull you can procure.
I desire no ass»stance but my horse, no weapons but this
3ord : yet, thus prepared, I will meet his fury, and take
him by the head, the horns, the feet, as you shall direct
\ will then, throw him down, bridle him, sidJl* hina, aud
512 SAADiOKD AND MEKTON.
vault upon his oack ; in this situation, you shall turn
out two more of the fiercest bulls you can find, and I
will attack thern both, and put them to death with my
dagger the instant you shall command." The governor
consented to this brave man's request, more from curi-
osity to see so extraordinary a spectacle, than from tho
opinion it would be attended with success.
1 When the appointed day arrived, the inhabitants of
the city assembled, and took their seats in a vast build-
ing which surrounded a considerable open space, des-
tined for this amazing combat. The brave American
then appeared alone, on horseback, armed with nothing
but his cord : and, after riding round the place, and
saluting the company, he waited intrepidly for his
enemy. Presently an enormous bull was let loose,
who, as soon as he beheld the man, attacked him with
all his fury. The American avoided his shock with
infinite dexterity, and galloped round the bull : who, in
his turn, betook himself to flight. The valiant horse-
man pursued his flying enemy, and while he was thus
engaged, he desired the governor to direct where he
would have him seized. He replied it was a matter of
indifference to him : and the American instantly throw-
ing his noose, which he held ready all the time, caught
the bull in his flight by one of his hinder legs : then,
galloping two or three times round the animal, he so
enveloped him in the snare, that, after a few violent
efforts to disengage himself, he fell to the earth. He
then leaped lightly from his horse ; and the animal
who had been perfectly trained up to this kind of com
bat, stood still and kept the cord extended ; while his
master advanced to the bull, and put him to death in ar
THE FURIOUS BULL. 61 S
instant, b\ stabbing him with his dagger behind the
horns.
4 All the assembly uttered a shout of admiration; but
Uie conqueror tuld them, that what they had seen was
Eothing j and, disentangling his cord from the slaughtered
beast, he composedly mounted his horse, and waited for
a new and more formidable enemy. Presently, the
gate of the torillo was opened, and a bull, much more
furious than the last, rushed out ; whom he was ordered
to bridle and saddle, according to his engagement.' —
1 I protest,' said Tommy, ' this is ihe most wonderful
story I ever heard. I do not believe all the fine gentle-
men I have ever seen, put together, would dare to attack
such a bull.'
' Master,' replied the Black, « the talents of mankind
are various ; and nature has, in every country, fur-
nished the human species with all the qualities necessary
for their preservation. In this country, and many others
which I have seen, there are thousands who live, like
birds in cages, upon the food provided by others, without
doing any thing for themselves. But they should be
contented with the happiness they enjoy (if such a life
can be called happiness,) and not despise their fellow
creatures, without whose continual assistance they could
not exist an instant.'
* Very true, indeed,' answered Tommy : « you seem
to be a very honest, sensible man, though a negro;
and, since I have given myself up to the improvement
sf my mind, 1 entertain the same opinions. — But, let us
aear how this brave man succeeded in his next attempt,'
When the charrmion oerceived this secono enenr*
%a4 sanwfqrd and mertojs.
approach, he waited for him with the same intrepidity
he had discovered before, and avoided his formidable
shock, by making his horse wheel nimbly round the
bull. When he had thus baffled his fury, and put his
enemy to flight, he chased him some time, as he had
done the former, till he drove him near to the middle of
the enclosed space, where a strong post had been firmly
fixed into the ground. As soon as he approached the
spot, he threw the unerring noose, and, catching the
bull by the horns, entangled him as he had done before,
and dragged him with some difficulty to the stake. To
this he bound him down so closely, that it became im-
possible for the creature either to resist or stir. Leap-
ing then from his horse, who remained immoveable as
before he took a saddle, which had been left there on
purpose, and girded it firmly on the back of the bull;
through his nostrils he thrust an iron ring ; to which
was fixed a cord, whieh he brought over his neck as a
bridle ; and then, arming his hand with a short spike,
he nimbly vaulted upon the back of this new and terrible
courser.
* The creature all this time, did not cease to bellow
with every expression of rage ; which had not the least
effect upon the mind of this valiant man: on the con-
trary, coolly taking a knife, he cut the cord which
bound him to the stake, and restored him to perfect li.
berty. The creature, thus disengaged, exerted every
effort of strength and fury to throw his rider, who kept
his seat undaunted in spite of all his violent agitation.
The gates of the torillo were then thrown open, and two
other furious bulls rushed out, and seemed ready to attack
ike man : but, at the instant they perceived the manne;
GOOD RESOLUTION. bit
m which he was mounted, their rage gave way to terror
and they fled precipitately away. The other bull fol
lowed his companions, and bore his rider several times
round the amphitheatre in this extraordinary chase. Thii
spectacle had already lasted some time, to the admira-
tion of all present ; when the governor ordered the mar
to complete the business, by putting all the bulls tc
death. He, instantly drawing his knife, plunged it be
hind the horns of the bull on which he rode, who imme
diately dropped down dead ; while the conqueror, dis-
engaging himself as he fell, stood upright by the
slaughtered animal. He then mounted his horse again,
who had been placed in safety at some little distance ;
and, pursuing the chase as before, wjfh his fatal noose,
dispatched both the surviving animals without the least
difficulty.'
Tommy expressed the greyest admiration at this
recital, and now, as the evening began to advance,
Mr. Barlow invited him to return. But Tommy,
instead of complying, took him by the hand, thanked
him for all his kindness and attention, but declared
his resolution of staying some time with his friend
Harry. * The more I consider my own behaviour,'
said he, *the more I feel myself ashamed of my folly
and ingratitude: but you have taught me, my deai
sir, that all I have in my power is to acknowledge
them: wh.ch I most willingly do before all this good
family, and entreat Harry to think that the impressions
I now feel, are such as I shall never forget.' Harry
embraced his friend, and assured him once more of his
being perfectly reconciled ; and all the family stood
mute with admiration at the condescension of the younjj
516 SANDFOKD AND MERTON.
gentleman, who was not ashamed of acknowledging hit
faults even tr his inferiors.
Mr. Barlow approved of Tommy's design, and took
upon him to answer for the consent of Mr. Mertoc
to his staying some time with Harry : then, taking his
leave of all the company, he departed.
But Tommy began now to enter upon a course of life
which was very little consistent with his former habits.
He supped with great cheerfulness, and even found him-
self happy with the rustic fare which was set before
him, accompanied, as it was, with unaffected civility,
and a hearty welcome. He went to bed early, and
slept very soundly all night : however, when Harry
came to call him the next morning at five, as he had
made him promise to do, he found a considerable diffi-
culty in rousing himself at the summons. Conscious
pride, however, and the newly-acquired dignity of his
character, supported him ; he recollected that he should
disgrace himself in the eyes of his father, of Mr. Bar-
low, and of all the family with which he now was, if he
appeared incapable of acting up to his own declara-
tions : he therefore made a noble effort, leaped out of
bed, dressed himself, and followed Harry. Not con
tented with this, he accompanied him in all his rustic
employments ; and as no kind of country exercise was
entirely new to him since his residence with Mr. Barlow,
ifie acquitted himself with a degree of dexterity that
gained him new commendations.
Thus did he pass the first day of his visit ; with some
jttle difficulty, indeed, but without deviating from his
resolution. The second, he found his change of HP:
nfinitelv more tolerable ; and, in a very little soace of
WOOD RESOLUTION. 517
!me, he was almost reconciled to his new situation
The additional exercise he used, improved his health
ind strength, and added so considerably to his appetite,
that he began to think the table of farmer Sandford
exceeded all that he had ever tried before.
By thus practising the common useful occupations of
life, he began to feel a more tender interest in the com-
mon concerns of his fellow-creatures. He now found,
from his own experience, that Mr. Bartow had not
deceived him in the various representations he had made
of the utility of the lower classes, and consequently of
the humanity which is due to them whea they discharge
their duty. Nor did that gentleman abandon his little
friend in this important trial : he visited him frequently,
pointed out every thing that was curious or interesting about
the farm, and encouraged him to persevere by his praises.
* You are now,' said Mr. Barlow, one day, ' beginning
10 practise those virtues which have rendered the great
men of other times so justly famous. It is not by
sloth, nor finery, nor the mean indulgence of our appe-
tites, that greatness of character, or even reputation,
is to be acquired. He that would excel others in virtue
or knowledge, must first excel them in temperance and
application. You cannot imagine, that men fit to com-
mand an army, or to give laws to a state, were evei
torraed by an idle and effeminate education. When the
ftoman people, oppressed by their enemies, were looking
aut for a leader to defend them, and change the fortune
of the war, where did they seek for this extraordinary
man] It was neither at banquets, nor in splendid
palaces, 1 or amid the gay, the elegant, or the dissi
44
618 SANDFORD AND MERTOK.
pated ; they turned their steps towards a poor and
solitary cottage, such as the meanest of your late com
panions would consider with contempt ; there they
found Cincinnatus (whose virtues and abilities were
allowed to excel all the rest of his citizens) turning up
the soil with a pair of oxen, and holding the plough
himself. This great man had been inured to arms and
the management of public affairs, even from his infancy;
he had repeatedly led the Roman legions to victory ;
yet, in the hour of peace, or when his country did not
require his services, he deemed no employment more
honourable than to labour for his own subsistence.
What would all your late friends have said, to see
the greatest men in England, and the bravest officers
of the army, crowding round the house of one of those
obscure farmers you have been accustomed to despise,
and intreating him, in the most respectful language, to
leave his fields, and accept of the highest dignity in tho
government or army ? Yet this was actually the state
of things at Rome : and it was characters like these,
with all the train of severe and rugged virtues, which
elevated that people above all the other nations of the
world. And tell me, my little friend, since chance, not
merit, too frequently allots the situation in which men
are to act, had you rather, in a high station, appear to
all mankind unworthy of the advantages you enjoy, or,
in a low one, seem equal to the most exalted employ
ments by your virtues and abilities V
Such were the conversations which Mr. Barlow fre-
|uently held with Tommy, and which never failed to
inspire hw with new resolution to persevere. Nor
could he help being frequently affected by the comparison
THE GETSRRAL. 510
if Harry's behaviour with his own : no cloud seemed
ever to shade the feature of his friend, or alter t.ie uni-
form sweetness of his temper ; even the repeated provo
cations he had received, were either totally obliterated, or
had made no disagreeable impressions. After discharging
die necessary duties of the day, he gave up the rest of
his time to the amusement of Tommy, with so much
zeal and affection, that he could not help loving him a
thousand times better than before.
During the evening too, Tommy frequently conversed
with the honest Negro concerning the most remarkaok
circumstances of the country where he was born. One
night that he seemed peculiarly inquisitive, the Black
gave him the following account of himself:
I was born,' said he, ' in the neighbourhood of the
fiver Gambia in Africa. In this country people are
astonished at my colour, and start at the sight of a
olack man, as if he did not belong to their species : but
there every body resembles me, and, when the first
white men landed upon our coast, we were as much
surprised with their appearance as you can be with ours.
In some parts of the world I have seen men of a yellow
hue / in others, of a copper colour ; and all have the
foolish vanity to despise their fellow-creatures, as infi-
nitely inferior to themselves. There, indeed, they enter-
tain those conceits from ignorance, but in this country,
where the natives pretend to superior reason, I have
often wondered they could be influenced by such a pre-
judice. Is a black horse thought to be inferior to a
white one in speed, in strength, or courage? Is a white
sow thought to give more milk, or a white dog to have
a more acute scent in pursuing the game 1 Oh the con
*>2fl SANDFORD AND MERTOH.
trary, I have generally found, in almost every country,
that a pale colour in animals is considered as a mark
of weakness and inferiority. Why then should a cer
tain race of men imagine themselves superior to the
rest, for the very circumstance they despise in othet
animals ?
c But, in the country where I was born, it is not only
man that differs from what we see here, but every other
circumstance. Here, for a considerable part of the year,
you are chilled by frosts and snows, and scarcely
behold the presence of the sun, during that gloomy
season, which is called the winter. With MS, the sun is
always present, pouring out light and heat, and scorch-
ing us with his fiercest beams. In my country, we
know no difference between the lengths of nights and
days ; all are of equal length throughout the year ; and
present not that continual variety which you see here :
we have neither ice, nor frost, nor snow ; the trees never,
lose their leaves, and we have fruits in every season of
the year. During several months, indeed, we are
scorched by unremitting heats, which parch the ground,
dry up the rivers, and afflict both men and animals with
intolerable thirst. In that season, you may behold
lions, tigers, elephants, and a variety of other ferocious
animals, driven from their dark abodes in the midst of
impenetrable forests, down to the lower grounds and
the sides of rivers ; every night we hear their savage
yells, their cries of rage, and think ourselves scarcely
safe in our cottages. In this country, you have reduced
all other animals to subjection, and have nothing to fear
except from each other. You even shelter yourselves
from the injuries of the weather, in mansions that seem
NEGROES 521
calculated to last for ever, in impenetrable houses of
brick or stot/e, that would have scarcely any thing tc
fear from the whole animal creation : but, with us, a few
reeds twisted together, and perhaps daubed over with
slime or mud, compose the whole of our dwellings.
Yet the innocent negro would sleep as happy and con«
tented as you do in your palaces, provided you do not
drag him by fraud and violence away, and force him to
endure all the excesses of your cruelty.
'It was in one of these cottages that I first remember
any thing of myself. A few stakes set in the ground, and
interwoven with dry leaves, covered at top with the
spreading leaves of the palm, composed our dwelling.
Our furniture consisted of three or four earthen pip-
kins ; in which our food was dressed; a few mats
woven with a silkv kind of grass to serve as beds : the
instruments with which my mother turned the ground,
and the javelin, arrows, and lines, which my father used
,n fishing or the chase. In this country and many
others where I have been, I observe that nobody thinks
himself happy till he has got together a thousand things
which he does not want, and can never use : you live in
Souses so big, that they are fit to contain an army ; you
cover yourselves with superfluous cloths that restrain
all the motions of your bodies : when you want to eat
you must have meat enough served up to nourish a
whole village ; yet I have seen poor famished wretches
starving at your gate, while the master had before hirr,
at least a hundred times as much as he could consume,
We negroes, whom you treat as savages, have differ-
ent manners and different opinions. The first thing
that I can remember of mvself, was the running naKed
44 *
5'J2
fANDFORD ANB MERTON
about such a cottage as I have described, with four of
my little brothers and sisters. I have observed you!
children here with astonishment: as soon as they are
born, it seems to be the business of all about them, tc
render them weak, helpless, and unable to use any of
their limbs : the little negro, on the contrary, is scarcely
born, before he learns to crawl about upon the ground.
Unrestrained by bandages or ligatures, he comes as
soon and as easily to the perfect use of all his organs,
as any of the beasts which surround him : before your
children here are taught to venture themselves upon
their feet, he has the perfect use of his, and can follow
his mother in her daily labours.
' This I remember was my own case. Sometimes 1
used to go with my mother to the field, where all the
women of the village were assembled to plant rice for
their subsistence. The joyful songs which they used to
eing, amid their toils, delighted my infant ear; and,
when their daily task was done, they danced together
under the shade of spreading palms. In this mannei
did they raise the simple food, which was sufficient for
themselves and their children ; yams, a root resembling
your potatoe, Indian corn, and, above all, rice: to this
were added the fruits which nature spontaneously pro-
duced in our woods, and the produce of the chase and
fishing. Yet with this we are as much contented ai
you are with all your splendid tables ; and enjoy a
greater share of health and strength. As soon as the
fiery heat of the sun declined, you might behold the
master of every cottage reposing before his own door,
and feasting upon his mess of roots or fruits, with al
his family around him. If a traveller or stranger hap
HKGRO CHILDREN. 523
peaea to come from a distant country, he was welcome
to enter into every house, and share the provisions of
the family : no door was barred against his entrance, na
surly servant insulted him for his poverty ; he entered
wherever he pleased, set himself down with the family,
and then pursued his journey, or reposed himself in
quiet till the next morning. In each of our towns there
is generally a large building, where the elder part of the
society are accustomed to meet in the shade of the eve-
ning, and converse upon a variety of subjects ; the young
and vigorous divert themselves with dances and other
pastimes, and the children of different ages amuse them-
selves with a thousand sports and gambols adapted to
Their age : some aim their little arrows at marks, or dart
their light and blunted javelins at each other, to form
themselves for the exercises of war and and the chase ;
others wrestle naked upon the sand, or run in sportive
races with a degree of activity which I have never
seen among the Europeans, who pretend to be our
masters.
* I have described to you the building of our houses ;
simple as they are, they answer every purpose of human
life: and every man is his own architect. A hundred
or two of these edifices compose our towns, which art>
generally surrounded by lofty hedges of thorns to secure
us from the midnight attacks of wild beasts, with onlv a
single entrance, which is carefully closed at night. —
' You talk,' said Tommy, ' of wild beasts ; pray, hai e
you many in your country V
1 Yes, master,' said the Black, ' we have them of manv
sorts, equally dreadful and ferocious. First, we hava
the Hon, which I dare say you have heard of, and per
624 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
haps seen. He is bigger than the largest mastiff, and
infinitely stronger and more fierce ; his paws alone are
such, that with a single blow he is able to knock down
a man, and almost every other animal ; but these paws
are armed with claws so sharp and dreadful, that nothing
can resist their violence. When he roars, every beast
of the forest betakes himself to flight, and even the
boldest hunter can scarcely hear it without dismay.
Sometimes, the most valiant of our youth assemble in
bands, arm themselves with arrows and javelins, and go
to the chase of these destructive animals. When they
have found his retreat, they generally make a circle
round, uttering shouts and cries, and clashing their
arms, to rouse him to resistance. The lion, mean-
while, looks round upon his assailants with ■ indifference
or contempt ; neither their number, nor their horrid
shouts, nor the glitter of their radiant arms, can daunt
him for an instant. At length he begins to lash his
sides with his long anil nervous tail, a certain sign of
rising rage ; his eyes sparkle with destructive fires ;
and if the number of the hunters is very great, he per-
haps moves slowly on. But this he is not permitted to
do; a javelin thrown at him from behind, wounds him
in the flank, and compels him to turn. Then you be-
hold him roused to fury and desperation ; neither wounds,
nor streaming blood, nor a triple row of barbed spears,
can prevent him from springing upon the daring black
who has wounded him. Should he reach him in tha
attack, it is certain death ; but generally the hunter,
*ho is at once contending for glory and his own life,
and is inured to danger, avoids him by a nimble leap j
*nd all his companions hasten to his assistance. Thus
THE LION. 52C-
is the i.on pressed and wounded on every side* his rage
is ineffectual, and only exhausts his strength the faster ;
a hundred wounds are pouring out his blood at once;
and at length he bites the ground in the agonies of
death, and yields the victory though unconquered.
When he is dead, he is carried back in triumph by thr»
hunters, as a trophy of their courage. All the village
rushes out at once ; the young, the old, women and
children, uttering joyful shouts, and praising the valour
of their champions. The elders admire his prodigious
size, his mighty limbs, his dreadful fangs, and perhaps
repeat tales of their own exploits ; the women seem to
tremble at their fierce enemy, even in his death ; while
the men compel their children to approach the monster,
and tinge their little weapons in his blood. All utter
joyful exclamations, and feasts are made in every
house, to which the victors are invited as the principal
guests. These are intended at once to reward those
who have pei formed so gallant an achievement, and to
encourage a spirit of enterprise in the rest of the
nation.'
' What a dreadful kind of hunting must this be!' said
Tommy : ' but I suppose if any one meets a lion alone,
it is impossible to resist him.'
' Not always,' answered the Black : « I will tell you
what I once was witness to myself. My father was
reckoned not only the most skilful hunter, but one of
*he bravest of our tribe : innumerable are the wild
beasts which have fallen beneath his arm. One even-
ing, when the inhabitants of the whole village were
assembled at their sports and dances, a monstrous lion
52'j SANDFORD AND MERTON.
allured, I suppose, by the smell of human flesh, bura
unexpectedly upon them, without warning them of hia
approach by roaring, as he commonly does. As they
were unarmed, and unprepared for defence, all but my
father instantly fled, trembling, to their huts: but he,
who had never yet turned his back upon any beast of
the forest, drew from his side a kind of knife or dagger,
which he constantly wore, and, placing one knee and
one hand upon the ground, waited the approach of his
terrible foe. The lion instantly rushed upon him with
a fury not to be described ; but my father received him
apon the point of his weapon with so steady and so
composed an aim, that he buried it several inches in his
belly. The beast attacked him a second time, and a
second time received a dreadful wound ; not, however
without laying bare one of my father's sides with a
Rudden stroke of his claws. The rest of the village then
rushed in, and soon dispatched the lion with innumerable
wounds.
' This exploit appeared so extraordinary, that it spread
my father's fame throughout the whole country, and
gave him the name of the undaunted hunter, as an
honourable distinction from th 3 neighbourhood. Undei
such a parent, it was not long before I was taught every
species of the chase. At first, my father only suffered
me to pursue stags and other feeble animals, or took me
in his canoe to fish. Soon, however, I was entrusted
with a bow and arrows, and placed with many other
children and young men to defend our rice-fields from
the depredations of the river-horse. Rice (it is necessar)
to observe) is a plant that requires great moisture ir
the soil ; all our plantations, therefore, are made, by th>
BRAVE EXPLOIT. 6*4"
lide of rivers, in the soft fertile soil which is overflowed
in the rainy season. But when the grain is almost ripe,
we are forced to defend it from a variety of hurtful
animals, that would otherwise deprive us of the fruits
of our labours; among these, one of the principal is the
animal I have mentioned. His size and bulk are im-
mense, being twice the bigness of the largest ox which I
have seen in this country : he has four legs, which an
short and thick ; a head of a monstrous magnitude, and
jaws that are armed with teeth of a prodigious size and
strength ; besides two prominent tusks which threaten
destruction to all assailants.
' Bu„ this animal, though so large and strong, is chiefly
an inhabitant of the river, where he lives upon fi h and
water-roots. It is sometimes a curious but a dreadful
sight when a boat is gliding over a smooth part of the
stream, of unusual depth and clearness, to look down
and behold this monstrous creature travelling along the
bottom several yards below the surface Whenever this
happens, the boatman instantly paddles another way :
for such is the strength of the creature, that he is able
to overset a bark of moderate size, by rising under it,
or to tear out a plank with his fangs, and expose those
who are in it to the dangers of an unexpected shipwreck.
All the day he chiefly hides himself in the water, and
preys upon fish ; but, during the gloom of night, he
issues from the river, and invades the fields of standing
corn, which he would soon lay desolate, were he not
driven back by the shouts and cries of those who are
stationed to defend them.
* At this work I had assisted several successive nighti
till we were almost wearied with watching. At length
628 SANDFORD AND MERTOK.
one of the most enterprising of our young men proposed
that we should no longer content ourselves with driving
back the enemy, but boldly attack him and punish him
for his temerity. With this purpose, we concealed our
selves in a convenient spot, till we had seen one of th<
river-horses issue from the water, and advanced a con-
siderable way into our plantations : then we rushed
from our hiding place with furious shouts and cries, and
endeavoured to intercept his return : but the beast, con-
fiding in his superior strength, advanced slowly on,
snarling horribly, and gnashing his dreadful tusks ; and
in this manner he opened his way through the thickest
of our battalions. In vain we poured upon him on
every side our darts and arrows, and every missive
weapon ; so well defended was he in an impenetrable hide,
that every weapon either rebounded as from a wall, or
glanced aside without in the least annoying. At length,
Dne of the boldest of our youth advanced unguardedly
upon him, and endeavoured to wound him from a shorter
distance; but the furious beast rushed upon him with an
unexpected degree of swiftness, ripped up his body with
a single stroke of his enormous tusk, and then, seizing
him in his furious jaws, lifted up his mangled body as
if in triumph, and crushed him into a bleeding ana
promiscuous mass.
* Fear instantly seized upon our company ; all invo-
luntarily retreated, and seemed inclined to quit the
unequal combat; all but myself, who, inflamed with
grief and rage for the loss of my companion, deter*
mined either to revenge his death or perish in the
attempt. Seeing, therefore, that it was in vain to attack
he animal in the usual manner, I chose tie sharpest
RIVER HORSE. 626
arrow, and fitted it to the bowstring ; then, with a cool
unterrified aim, observing him moving nimbly on to the
river, I discharged it full at his broad and glaring eye-
ball with such success, that the barbed point penetrated
even to his brain ; and the monster fell expiring to the
ground.
* This action, magnified beyond its deserts, gained me
universal applause throughout the hamlet : I was from
that time looked upon as one of the most valiant and
fortunate of our youth. The immense body of the
monster which I had slain was cut to pieces, and borne
in triumph to the village. All the young women re-
ceived me with songs of joy and congratulations ; the
young men adopted me as their leader in every hazard-
ous expedition ; and the elders applauded me with such
expressions of esteem, as filled my ignorant heart with
vanity and exultation.
'But what was more agreeable to me than all the
rest, my father received me with transport, and, press-
ing me to his bosom with tears of joy, told me, that
now he could die with pleasure, since I had exceeded
his most sanguine expectations. " I," said he, " have
not lived inactive, or inglorious ; I have transfixed the
tiger with my shafts; I have, though alone, attacked
the lion in his rage, the terror of the woods, the fiercest
of animals : even the elephant has been compelled to
turn his back and fly before my javelin : but never, in
the pride of my youth and strength, did I achieve sucli
an exploit as this." He then went into his cabin and
brought forth the bow and fatal arrows which he was
accustomed to use in the chase. "Take them, takf
45
580 IANDFOSD AND MBRTON.
them, ' said he, " my son, and rescue my weaker arm
from a burthen which it is no longer destined to sus.
tain. Age is now creeping on; my blood begins to
cool, my sinews slacken, and I am no longer equal to
the task of supporting the glories of our race. That
«are shall now be thine ; and with a firmer hand shall
thou henceforth use these weapons against the beasts of
the forest and the enemies of our country." '
Such was the account which the Negro gave to
Tommy, in different conversations, of his birth and
education. His curiosity was gratified with the recital,
and his heart expanded in the same proportion that his
knowledge improved. He reflected, with shame and
contempt, upon the ridiculous prejudices he had once
entertained ; he learned to consider all men as his
brethren and equals : and the foolish distinctions which
pride had formerly suggested were gradually obliterated
from his mind. Such a change in his sentiments ren-
dered him more mild, more obliging, more engaging
than ever; he became the delight of all the family ; and
Harry, although he had always loved him, now knew
no limits to his affection.
One day Tommy was surprised by an unexpected
visit from his father, who met him with open arms, and
told him, that he was now come to take him back to his
own house. * I have heard,' said he, « such an account
of your present behaviour, that the past is entirely for-
gotten ; and I begin to glory in owning you for a son.
He then embraced him with the transports of an affec
iionate father who indulges the strongest sentiments ol
lis heart, but sentiments he had long been forced ta
es train.
FARMERS OF OLD. 531
Tommy returned his father's caresses with genuine
warmth, but with a degree of respect and humility he
had once been little accustomed to use. « I will accom-
pany you home, sir,' said he, ' with the greatest readi
ness ; for I wish to see my mother, and hope to give
her some satisfaction by my future behaviour. You
have both had too much to complain of in the past ; and
I am unworthy of such affectionate parents.' He then
turned his face aside, and shed a tear of real virtue and
gratitude, which he instantly wiped away as unworthy
the composure and fortitude of his new character.
« But, sir,' added he, « I hope you will not object tc
my detaining you a little longer, while I return my
acknowledgments to all the family, and take my leave
of Harry.' — * Surely,' said Mr. Merton, ' you can enter-
tain no doubt on that subject : and to give you every
opportunity of discharging all your duties to a family,
to which you owe so much, I intend to take a dinner
with Mr. Sandford, whom I now see coming home, and
then to return with you in the evening.'
At this instant, farmer Sandford approached, and
very respectfully saluting Mr. Merton, invited him to
walk in. But Mr. Merton, after returning his civility,
drew him aside, as if he had some private business to
communicate. When they were alone, he made him
every acknowledgment that gratitude could suggest :
« but words,' added Mr. Merton, < are very insufficient
to return the favours I have received : for it is to your
excellent family, together with the virtuous Mr. Barlow
that 1 owe the preservation of my son. Let me, there-
fore, entreat you to accept of what this pocket-book con-
tains as a slight proof of my sentiments : and lay it out
532
SANDF0RD AND MERTOK
in whatever manner you please, for the advantage o.
your family.'
Mr. Sandford, who was a man both of sense and
humour, took the book, and examining the inside, found
that it contained bank notes to the amount of some hun-
dred pounds. He then carefully shut it up again, and
returning it to Mr. Merton, told him, * that he was infi-
nitely obliged to him for the generosity which prompted
him to such a princely act ; but, as to the present itself
he must not be offended if he declined it.' Mr. Merton
still more astonished at such disinterestedness, pressed
him with every argument he could think of; he desired
him to consider the state of his family ; his daughters
unprovided for; his son himself, with dispositions that
might adorn a throne, brought up to labour; and his
own advancing age, which demanded ease and respite,
and an increase of the conveniences of life.
* And what,' replied the honest farmer, * is it but these
conveniences of life, that are the ruin of all the nation ?
When I was a young man, master Merton, (and that is
near forty years ago), people in my condition thought
of nothing but doing their duty to God and man, and
labouring hard: this brought down a blessing upon
their heads, and made them thrive in all their worldly
concerns. When I was a boy, farmers did not lie
droning in bed as they do now, till six or seven : my
father, I believe, was as good a judge of business as
any in the neighbourhood, and turned as straight a fur-
row as any ploughman in the county of Devon : thai
silver cup which I intend to have the honour of drink-
ing your health out of to-day at dinner, that very cup
was won by him at the great ploughing-match neai
FARMERS OF OLD. 538
Axminster. Well, my father used to say, that a farmer
was not worth a farthing that was not in the field by
four ; and my poor dear mother too, the best tempered
woman in the world, she always began milking exactly
at five ; and if a single soul was to be found in bed
after four in the summer, you might have heard her
from one end of the farm to the other. I would not
disparage any body, or any thing, my good sir ; but
those were times indeed ; the women, ihen, knew some-
thing about the management of a house : it really was
quite a pleasure to hear my poor mother lecture the
servants ; and the men were men indeed ; pray, did you
ever hear the story of father's being at Truro, and
throwing the famous Cornish wrestler, Squinting Dick
the miner?'
Mr. Merton began to be convinced that, whatevei
other qualities good Mr. Sandford might have, he did
not excel in brevity ; and therefore endeavoured, in still
stronger terms, to overcome the delicacy of the farmer,
and prevail upon him to accept his present.
But the good farmer pursued his point thus : * Thank
you, thank you, my dear sir, a thousand times, for your
good will ; but, as to the money, I must beg your pardon
if I persist in refusing it. Formerly, sir, as I was say-
ing, we were all happy and healthy, and our afFairi
prospered, because we never thought about the conve-
niences of life; now, I hear of nothing else. One
neighbour (for I will not mention names) brings his son
up to go a shooting with gentlemen ; another sends his
to market upon a blood-horse, with a plated bridle ; and
then the girls, the girls ! — there is fine work, indeed !—
hey must have their hats and feathers, and riding
45 *
634 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
habits; their heads as big as bushels, and even theii
hind quarters stuck out with cork or pasteboard; h\t
scarcely one of them can milk a cow, or churn, or bake^
or do any one thing that is necessary in a family : sd
that, unless the government will send them all to these
new settlements which I have heard so much of, and
bring us a cargo of plain, honest housewives, who have
never been at boarding-schools, I cannot conceive how
we farmers are to get wives.
Mr. Merton laughed very heartily at this sally, and
told him, that he would venture to assert it was not so
at his house. — < Not quite so bad, indeed,' said the far-
mer ; * my wife was bred up under a notable mother :
and, though she must, have her tea every afternoon, is,
in the main, a very good sort of woman. She has
brought her daughters up a little better than usual : but
I can assure you, she and I have had many a good
argument upon the subject. Not but she approves
their milking, spinning, and making themselves useful ;
but she would fain have them genteel, master Merton :
all women now are mad after gentility ; and, when once
gentility begins, there is an end of industry. Now,
where they to hear of such a sum as you have gener-
ously offered, there would be no peace in the house.
My wenches, instead of Deb and Kate, would be mhs
Deborah and miss Catherine / in a little time, they
must be sent to boarding-school, to learn French and
music, and wriggling about the room. And, when they
come back, who musi boil the pot, or make the pud
ding, or sweep the house, or serve the pigs ? Did you
ever hear of miss Juliana, or miss Harriet, or misi
Carolina, doing such vulgar things V
FARMERS OF OLD. 53§
Mr. Merlon was very much struck with the honesk
farmer's method of expressing himself, and could not
help internally allowing the truth of his representations;
yet he still pressed him to accept his present, and re-
minded him of the improvement of his farm.
' Thank you again, and again,' replied the farmer
1 but the whole generations of the Sand fords have been
brought up to labour with their own hands for these
hundred years ; and during all that time, there ha3 not
been a dishonest person, a gentleman, or a madman
amongst us. And shall I be the first to break the cus-
toms of the family, and perhaps bring down a curse on
all our heads? What could I have more, if I were a
lord, or a macaroni, as I think you call them? I have
plenty of victuals and work, good firing, clothes, warm
house, a little for the poor, and, between you and I,
something, perhaps, in a corner to set rny children off
with, if they behave well. Ah ! neighbour, neighbour,
if you did but know the pleasure of holding plough
after a good team of horses, and then going tired to
bed, perhaps, you'd wish to have been brought up a
farmer too. But, in one word, as well as a thousand, I
shall never forget the extraordinary kindness of your
offer ; but, if you would not ruin a whole family of
innocent people that love you, e'en consent to leave ua
as we are.'
Mr. Merton then seeing the fixed determination of too
farmer, and feeling the justice of his course, but strong
morality, was obliged, however reluctantly, to desist ;
and Mrs. Sand ford, coming to invite them to dinner, ae
entered the house, and paid his respects to the family.
After the cloth was removed, and Mrs. Saniford had
686 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
twice or thrice replenished his silver mug, the only
piece of finery in his house, little Harry came running
m, with so much alacrity and heedlessness that he tore
miss Deborah's best apron, and he had nearly preci.
pitated miss Catharine's new cap into the fire ; for which
the young ladies and his mother rebuked him with some
acrimony. But Harry, after begging pardon with his
usual good-humour, cried, * Father, father, here is the
prettiest team of horses, all matched, and of a colour
with new harness, the most complete I ever saw in my
life ; and they have stopped at our back-door, and the
man says they are brought for you !' Farmer Sand-
ford was just then in the middle of his history of the
ploughing-match at Axminster ; but the relation of his
son had such an involuntary effect upon him, that he
started up, overset the liquor and the table, and, making
a hasty apology to Mr. Merton, ran out to see these
wonderful horses.
Presently he returned, in equal admiration with his
son. « Master Merton,' said he, « I did not think you
had been so good a judge of a horse. I suppose they
are a new purchase, which you want to have my
opinion upon ; and, I can assure you, they are the true
Suffolk sorrels, the first breed of working horses in the
kingdom ; and these are some of the best of their kind.'
Such as they are,' answered Mr. Merton, * they are
; ours ; and I cannot think, after the obligations 1 am
mder to your family, that you will do me so great a
ispleasure as to refuse.'
Mr. Sandford stood for some time in mute astonish*
<*ent, but, at length, he was beginning the civ?*eal
PBOPER ACKNOWLEDGMENT. S37
speech he could think of, to refuse so great a present
iv hen Tommy coming up, took him by the hand, ana
Pegged him not to deny to his father and himself the
first favour they had ever asked. * Besides,' said ne
1 this present is less to yourself than to little Harry
and, surely, after having lived so long in your family,
you will not turn me out with disgrace, as if I had mis-
behaved.' — Here Harry himself interposed, and, con
sidering less the value of the present than the feelings
and intentions of the giver, he took his father by the
hand, and besought him to oblige master Merton and
his father. ' Were it any one else, I would not say
a word,' added he : ' but I know the generosity of Mr.
Merton and the goodness oi" master Tommy so well,
that they will receive more pleasure from giving, than
you from taking the horses: tnough I must confess,
they are such as wou*ii do credit to any body ; and
they beat farmer Knowles's all to nothing, which have
long been reckoned the best team in all the country.'
This last reflection, joined with all that had preceded,
overcame the delicacy of Mr. Sandford ; and he at length
consented to order the horses to be led into his stable.
And now Mr. Merton, having made the most affec-
tionate acknowledgments to all this worthy and happy
tamily, among whom he did not forget the honest Black
whom he promised to provide for, summoned his son tc
accompany him h'mne. Tommy arose, and with the
sincerest gratitude, bade adieu to Harry and all the
rest. — c I shall not be long without you,' said he to
Harry ; * to your example I owe most of the little good
that I can boast : vou have taught me h<5w much better
688 SANDFORD AND MERTON.
it is tc be useful than rich or fine : how much mum
amiable to be good than to be great. Should I ever og
tempted to relapse, even for an instant, into anv of my
former habits, I will return hither for instruction, and J
hope you will again receive me.' Saying this, he shook
his friend Harry affectionately by the hand, and. Wtth
watery eyes, accompanied his father home.
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